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THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE 


BY  GRANVILLE  BARKER 

THE  MADRAS  HOUSE 

ANATOL 

THE  MARRYING  OF  ANN  LEETE 

THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE 

WASTE 

SOULS  ON  FIFTH 

In  Collaboration  ivith  Laurence  Housman 
PRUNELLA 


^^.^ 


T 


HE  VOYSEY  IN- 
HERITANCE: 

A  PLAY,  IN    FIVE  ACTS 
BY  GRANVILLE  BARKER        §^10^^^ 


IRpSEEERjl 


aWVAD-QlS 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 

1916 


^60 

Copyright,  iQog,  igi6. 
By  Granville  Barker. 


All  rights  reserved 
Published,  February,  191 6 


J  3  70^ 


THE  VOrSET  INHERITANCE  it  fully  frotected  by  copyright.  It 
must  not  bi  ftrformed  tithtr  by  amateurt  »r  frofetsionals  without 
written  permission.  For  such  permission.,  and  for  the  '■'■acting  version'''' 
with  full  stage  direct'tuns^  tipPh  '«  "^he  Paget  D-amatic  Agency.,  25 
West  4Sth  Street,  Netui  Tori  City. 


printna 
B.  J.  Pabkhill  ds  Co.,  Boston,  n.S.A* 


The  Voysey  Inheritance 

1903-5 


337088 


THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE 

The  office  of  Voysey  and  Son  is  in  the  best  part  of  Lincoln's 
Inn.  Its  panelled  rooms  give  out  a  sense  of  grand- 
motherly comfort  and  security,  very  grateful  at  first 
to  the  hesitating  investor,  the  dubious  litigant.  Mr. 
Voysey's  own  room,  into  which  he  walks  about 
twenty  past  ten  of  a  morning,  radiates  enterprise  be- 
sides. There  is  polish  on  everything ;  on  the  win- 
dows, on  the  mahogany  of  the  tidily  packed  writing 
table  that  stands  between  them,  on  the  brasswork  of 
the  fire-place  in  the  other  wall,  on  the  glass  of  the 
fire-screen  which  preserves  only  the  pleasantness  of 
a  sparkling  Hre,  even  on  Mr.  Voysey' s  hat  as  he  takes 
it  off  to  place  it  on  the  little  red  curtained  shelf  be- 
hind the  door.  Mr,  Voysey  is  sixty  or  more,  and 
masterful;  would  obviously  be  master  anywhere 
from  his  own  home  outwards,  or  wreck  the  situation 
in  his  attempt.  Indeed  there  is  a  buccaneering  air 
.  sometimes  in  the  tzvist  of  his  glance,  not  altogether 
suitable  to  a  family  solicitor.  On  this  bright  October 
morning,  Peacey,  the  head  clerk,  follows  just  too 
late  to  help  him  off  with  his  coat,  but  in  time  to  take 
it  and  hang  it  up  with  a  quite  unnecessary  subservi- 
ence. Mr.  Voysey  is  evidently  not  capable  enough 
to  like  capable  men  about  him.  Peacey,  not  quite 
removed  from  Nature,  has  made  some  attempts  to 
acquire  protective  colouring.  A  very  drunken  client 
X 


2  THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       [act  i 

might  mistake  him  for  his  master.  His  voice  very 
easily  became  a  toneless  echo  of  Mr.  Voysey's;  later 
his  features  caught  a  line  or  two  from  that  mirror 
of  all  the  necessary  virtues  into  which  he  was  so 
constantly  gating;  but  how  his  clothes,  even  when 
new,  contrive  to  look  like  old  ones  of  Mr.  Voysey's 
is  a  mystery,  and  to  his  tailor  a  most  annoying  one. 
And  Peacey  is  just  a  respectful  number  of  years  his 
master's  junior.  Relieved  of  his  coat,  Mr.  Voysey 
carries  to  his  table  the  bunch  of  beautiful  roses  he  is 
accustomed  to  bring  to  the  office  three  times  a  week, 
and  places  them  for  a  moment  only  near  the  bowl  of 
water  there  ready  to  receive  them,  while  he  takes  up 
his  letters.  These  lie  ready,  too,  opened  mostly,  one 
or  two  private  ones  left  closed  and  discreetly  sep- 
arate. By  this  time  the  usual  salutations  have 
passed,  Peacey* s  "Good  morning,  sir;"  Mr.  Voysey's 
"Morning,  Peacey."  Then  as  he  gets  to  his  letters 
Mr.  Voysey  starts  his  day's  work. 
MR.  VOYSEY.    Any  news  for  me? 

PEACEY.    I  hear  bad  accounts  of  Alguazils  preferred,  sir. 
MR.  VOYSEY.    Oh  .  .  from  whom? 
PEACEY.    Merrit  and  James's  head  clerk  in  the  train  this 
morning. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  They  looked  all  right  on  .  .  Give  me  the 
Times,  [peacey  goes  to  the  fire-place  for  the  Times;  it  is 
warming  there.  MR.  voysey  waves  a  letter,  then  places  it 
on  the  table.']  Here,  that's  for  you  .  .  Gerrard  Cross  busi- 
ness.   Anything  else? 

peacey.     [As  he  turns  the  Times  to  its  Finance  page.] 
I've  made  the  usual  notes. 
MR.  VOYSEY.    Thank'ee. 
peacey.     Young  Benham  isn't  back  yet. 
MR.  voysey.    Mr.  Edward  must  do  as  he  thinks  fit  about 
that.    Alguazils,  Alg — oh,  yes. 


ACT  i]       THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE  S 

He  is  running  his  eye  down  the  columns,  peacey 
leans  over  the  letters. 

PEACEY.     This  is  from  Jackson,  sir.    Shall  I  take  it  ? 

MR.  VOYSEY.     From  Jackson  .  .  Yes.      Alguazils.     Mr. 
Edward's  here,  I  suppose? 

PEACEY.     No,  sir. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     [His  eye  twisting  with  some  sharpness."] 
What! 

PEACEY.     [Almost  alarmed.']    I  beg  pardon,  sir. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Mr.  Edward. 

PEACEY.     Oh,  yes,  sir,  been  in  his  room  some  time.    I 
thought  you  said  Headley ;  he's  not  due  back  till  Thursday. 
MR.  VOYSEY  discards  the  Times  and  sits  to  his  desk 
and  his  letters. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Tell  Mr.  Edward  I've  come. 

PEACEY.    Yes,  sir.    Anything  else?     * 

MR.  VOYSEY.    Not  for  the  moment.    Cold  morning,  isn't 
It? 

PEACEY.     Quite  surprising,  sir. 

MR.  VOYSEY.    We  had  a  touch  of  frost  down  at  Chisle- 
hurst. 

PEACEY.     So  early! 

MR.  VOYSEY.    I  want  it  for  the  celery.    All  right,  I'll  call 
through  about  the  rest  of  the  letters. 

PEACEY  goes,  having  secured  a  letter  or  two,  and  mr. 
VOYSEY,  having  sorted  the  rest  (a  proportion  into 
the  waste  paper  basket)  takes  up  the  forgotten  roses 
and  starts  setting  them  into  a  howl,  with  an  artistic 
hand.  Then  his  son  edward  comes  in.  mr.  voysey 
gives  him  one  glance  and  goes  on  arranging  the 
roses,  hut  says  cheerily  .  . 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Good  moming,  my  dear  boy. 

EDWARD  has  little  of  his  father  in  him,  and  that  little 
is  undermost.  It  is  a  refined  face,  hut  self -conscious- 
ness takes  the  place  in  it  of  imagination  and  in  sup- 


4<  THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       [act  i 

pressing  traits  of  brutality  in  his  character  it  looks 
as  if  the  young  man  had  suppressed  his  sense  of 
humour,  too.  But  whether  or  no,  that  would  not  be 
much  in  evidence  now,  for  edward  is  obviously  go- 
ing through  some  experience  which  is  scaring  him 
{there  is  no  better  word).  He  looks  not  to  have 
slept  for  a  night  or  two,  and  his  standing  there, 
clutching  and  iinclutching  the  bundle  of  papers  he 
carries,  his  eyes  on  his  father,  half  appealingly,  but 
half  accusingly,  too,  his  whole  being  altogether  so 
unstrung  and  desperate,  makes  mr.  voysey's  uninter- 
rupted arranging  of  the  flowers  seem  very  calculated 
indeed.  At  last  the  little  tension  of  silence  is  broken. 
EDWARD.    Father  .  . 

MR.  VOYSEY.      Well? 

EDWARD.    I'm  glad  to  see  you. 

This  is  a  statement  of  fact.  He  doesn't  know  that 
the  commonplace  phrase  sounds  ridiculous  at  such  a 
moment. 

MR.  VOYSEY.    I  see  you've  the  papers  there. 

EDWARD.    Yes. 

MR.  VOYSEY.    You've  been  through  them? 

EDWARD.    As  you  wished  me  .  . 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Well?  [EDWARD  docsn't  answcT.  Refer- 
ence to  the  papers  seems  to  overwhelm  him  with  shame. 
MR.  VOYSEY  goes  on  with  cheerful  impatience.']  Come, 
come,  my  dear  boy,  you  mustn't  take  it  like  this.  You're 
puzzled  and  worried,  of  course.  But  why  didn't  you  come 
down  to  me  on  Saturday  night?  I  expected  you  .  .  I  told 
you  to  come.  Then  your  mother  was  wondering,  of  course, 
why  you  weren't  with  us  for  dinner  yesterday. 

EDWARD.  I  went  through  all  the  papers  twice.  I  wanted 
to  make  quite  sure. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Sure  of  what  ?    I  told  you  to  come  to  me. 

EDWARD.     IHe  is  very  near  crying.']    Oh,  father ! 


ACT  i]       THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE  5 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Now  look  here,  Edward,  Fm  going  to  ring, 
and  dispose  of  these  letters.    Please  pull  yourself  together. 
{^He  pushes  the  little  button  on  his  table.'] 
EDWARD.     I  didn't  leave  my  rooms  all  day  yesterday. 
MR.   VOYSEY.    A   pleasant   Sunday !     You  must   learn, 
whatever    the    business    may    be,    to    leave    it    behind 
you   at   the    Office.     Why,   life's  not  worth   living   else. 
PEACEY  comes  in  to  find  mr.  voysey  before  the  fire, 
ostentatiously  warming  and  rubbing  his  hands. 
Oh,  there  isn't  much  else,  Peacey.     Tell  Simmons  that  if 
he  satisfies  you  about  the  details  of  this  lease  it'll  be  all 
right.    Make  a  note  for  me  of  Mr.  Grainger's  address  at 
Mentone.    I  shall  have  several  letters  to  dictate  to  Atkin- 
son.   I'll  whistle  for  him. 

PEACEY.     Mr.   Burnett    . .    Burnett  v.  Marks  had  just 
come  in,  Mr.  Edward. 

EDWARD.     [Without  turning.']     It's  only  fresh  instruc- 
tions.   Will  you  take  them? 
PEACEY.     All  right. 

PEACEY  goes,  lifting  his  eyebrow  at  the  queerness  of 
Edward's  manner.    This  mr.  voysey  sees,  returning 
to  his  table  with  a  little  scowl. 
MR.  VOYSEY.     Now  sit  down.    I've  given  you  a  bad  forty- 
eight  hours,  it  seems.    Well,  I've  been  anxious  about  you. 
Never  mind,  we'll  thresh  the  thing  out  now.     Go  through 
the  two  accounts.     Mrs.  Murberry's  first  .  .  how  do  you 
find  it  stands? 

EDWARD.     [His  feelings  choking  him.]  1  hoped  you  were 
playing  some  trick  on  me. 
MR.  VOYSEY.     Come,  now. 

EDWARD  separates  the  papers  precisely  and  starts  to 
detail  them;  his  voice  quite  toneless.    Now  and  then 
his  father's  sharp  comments  ring  out  in  contrast. 
EDWARD.     We've  got  the  lease  of  her  present  house,  sev- 
eral agreements  .  .  and  here's  her  will.     Here's  also  a 


6  THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       [act  i 

sometime  expired  power  of  attorney  over  her  securities 
and  her  property  generally  .  .  it  was  for  six  months. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     She  was  in  South  Africa. 

EDWARD.  Here's  the  Sheffield  mortgage  and  the  Henry 
Smith  mortgage  with  Banker's  receipts  .  .  hers  to  us  for 
the  interest  up  to  date  .  .  four  and  a  half  and  five  per  cent. 
Then  .  .  Fretworthy  Bonds.  There's  a  memorandum  in 
your  writing  that  they  are  at  the  Bank;  but  you  didn't  say. 
what  Bank. 

MR.  VOYSEY.    My  own  .  .  Stukeley's. 

EDWARD.  [Just  dwelling  on  the  words.']  Your  own.  I 
marked  that  with  a  query.  There's  eight  thousand  five 
hundred  in  three  and  a  half  India  stock.  And  there  are 
her  Banker's  receipts  for  cheques  on  account  of  those 
dividends.     I  presume  for  those  dividends. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Why  not? 

EDWARD.  [Gravely.']  Because  then,  Father,  there  are 
Banker's  half  yearly  receipts  for  sums  amounting  to  an 
average  of  four  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  a  year.  But  I 
find  no  record  of  any  capital  to  produce  this. 

MR.  VOYSEY.    Go  on.    What  do  you  find? 

EDWARD.  Till  about  three  years  back  there  seems  to 
have  been  eleven  thousand  in  Queenslands  which  would 
produce — did  produce  exactly  the  same  sum.  But  after 
January  of  that  year  I  find  no  record  of  this. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     In  fact,  the  Queenslands  are  missing? 

EDWARD.     {Hardly  uttering  the  word.]     Yes. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     From  which  you  conclude? 

EDWARD.  I  concluded  at  first  that  you  had  not  handed 
me  all  the  papers  connected  with 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Since  Mrs.  Murberry  evidently  gets  an- 
other four  twenty  a  year  somehow ;  lucky  woman. 

EDWARD.     [/»  agony.]    Oh ! 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Well,  we'll  return  to  the  good  lady  later. 
Now  let's,  take  the  other. 


ACT  i]       THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE  7 

EDWARD.    The  Hatherley  Trust. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Quite  so. 

EDWARD.     [With  one  accusing  glance.']    Trust. 

MR.  VOYSEY.      Go  OH. 

EDWARD.    Oh,  father  .  . 

His  grief  comes  uppermost  again,  and  mr.  voysey 
meets  it  kindly. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  I  know,  my  dear  boy.  I  shall  have  lots  to 
say  to  you.  But  let's  get  quietly  through  with  these  details 
first. 

EDWARD.  [Bitterly  now.']  Oh,  this  is  simple  enough. 
We're  young  Hatherley's  only  trustees  till  his  coming  of 
age  in  about  five  years'  time.  The  property  was  eighteen 
thousand  invested  in  Consols.  Certain  sums  were  to  be 
allowed  for  his  education;  these  have  been  and  are  still 
being  paid.  There  is  no  record  as  to  the  rest  of  the  capital. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     None? 

EDWARD.  Yes  .  .  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  There's  a 
memorandum  to  refer  to  the  Bletchley  Land  Scheme. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  That  must  be  ten  years  ago.  But  he's 
credited  with  the  interest  on  his  capital? 

EDWARD.  On  paper,  sir.  The  balance  was  to  be  rein- 
vested. There's  a  partial  account  in  your  hand  writing. 
He's  credited  with  the  Consol  interest. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Quite  so. 

EDWARD.  I  think  I've  heard  you  say  that  the  Bletchley 
scheme  paid  seven  and  a  half. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  At  one  time.  Have  you  taken  the  trouble 
to  calculate  what  will  be  due  from  us  to  the  lad? 

EDWARD.  Capital  and  compound  interest  .  .  .  about 
twenty-six  thousand  pounds. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Yes,  it's  a  large  sum.    In  five  years'  time? 

EDWARD.     When  he  comes  of  age. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Well,  that  gives  us,  say  four  years  and  six 
months  in  which  to  think  about  it. 


g  THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       [act  i 

EDWARD  waits,  hopelessly,  for  his  father  to  speak 
again;  then  says  .  . 

EDWARD.  Thank  you  for  showing  me  these,  sir.  Shall 
I  put  them  back  in  your  safe  now? 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Yes,  you'd  better.  There's  the  key.  [ed- 
WARD  reaches  for  the  hunch,  his  face  hidden.']  Put  them 
down.  Your  hand  shakes  .  .  why,  you  might  have  been 
drinking  .  .  I'll  put  them  away  later.  It's  no  use  having 
hysterics,  Edward.    Look  the  trouble  in  the  face. 

Edward's  only  answer  is  to  go  to  the  fire,  as  far 
from  his  father  as  the  room  allows.  And  there  he 
leans  on  the  mantelpiece,  his  shoulders  heaving. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  I'm  sorry,  my  dear  boy.  I  wouldn't  tell 
you  if  I  could  help  it. 

EDWARD.  I  can't  believe  it.  And  that  you  should  be 
telling  it  me. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Let  your  feelings  go,  and  get  that  part  of 
the  business  over.  It  isn't  pleasant,  I  know.  It  isn't  pleas- 
ant to  inflict  it  on  you. 

EDWARD.  How  I  got  through  that  outer  office  this  morn- 
ing, I  don't  know.  I  came  early,  but  some  of  them  were 
here.  Peacey  came  into  my  room ;  he  must  have  seen  there 
was  something  up. 

MR.  VOYSEY.    That's  no  matter. 

EDWARD.  [Able  to  turn  to  his  father  again;  won  round 
by  the  kind  voice.']  How  long  has  it  been  going  on  ?  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  before?  Oh,  I  know  you  thought  you'd 
pull  through ;  but  I'm  your  partner  .  .  I'm  responsible,  too. 
Oh,  I  don't  want  to  shirk  that  .  .  don't  think  I  mean  to 
shirk  that,  father.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  discovered, 
but  those  affairs  were  always  in  your  hands.  I  trusted  .  , 
I  beg  your  pardon.  Oh,  it's  us  .  .  not  you.  Everyone  has 
trusted  us. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [Calmly  and  kindly  still.]  You  don't  seem 
to  notice  that  I'm  not  breaking  my  heart  like  this. 


ACT  i]       THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE  9 

EDWARD.  What's  the  extent  of  the  mischief  ?  When  did 
it  begin?    Father,  what  made  you  begin  it? 

MR.  VOYSEY.     I  didn't  begin  it. 

EDWARD.     You  didn't.    Who,  then? 

MR.  VOYSEY.  My  father  before  me.  [edward  staresJ] 
That  calms  you  a  little. 

EDWARD.  I'm  glad  .  .  my  dear  father !  [And  he  puts 
out  his  hand.  Then  just  a  doubt  enters  his  mind.~\  But 
I  .  .  it's  amazing. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [Shaking  his  head.l  My  inheritance, 
Edward. 

EDWARD.    My  dear  father ! 

MR.  VOYSEY.     I  had  hoped  it  wasn't  to  be  yours. 

EDWARD.  D'you  mean  to  tell  me  that  this  sort  of  thing 
has  been  going  on  for  years  ?    For  more  than  thirty  years  ! 

MR.  VOYSEY.      Yes. 

EDWARD.  That's  a  little  difficult  to  understand  just  at 
first,  sir. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [Sententiously.l  We  do  what  we  must  in 
this  world,  Edward.    I  have  donejadiat-J-had-te--dQ. ^\/ 

EDWARD.     [His  emotion  well  cooled  by  now.']     Perhaps    ,  '^  ''^ 
I'd  better  just  listen  quietly  while  you  explain. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [Concentrating.']  You  know  that  I'm  heav- 
ily into  Northern  Electrics. 

EDWARD.    Yes. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  But  you  dou't  know  how  heavily.  When  I 
discovered  the  Municipalities  were  organising  the  pur- 
chase, I  thought,  of  course,  the  stock'd  be  up  a  hundred 
and  forty — a  hundred  and  fifty  in  no  time.  Now  Leeds 
won't  make  up  her  quarrel  with  the  other  place  .  .  there'll 
be  no  bill  brought  in  for  ten  years.  I  bought  at  ninety- 
five.    What  are  they  now? 

EDWARD.     Eighty-eight. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Eighty-seven  and  a  half.  In  ten  years  I 
may  be  .  .    !    That's  why  you've  had  to  be  told. 


10        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       [act  i 

EDWARD.     With  whose  money  are  you  so  heavily  into 
Northern  Electrics? 
MR.  VOYSEY.    The  firm's  money. 
EDWARD.    Clients'  money? 

MR.  VOYSEY.      Yes. 

EDWARD.  IColdly,']  Well  .  .  I'm  waiting  for  your  ex- 
planation, sir. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  You  scem  to  have  recovered  yourself  pret- 
ty much. 

EDWARD.     No,  sir.    I'm  trying  to  understand,  that's  all. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [With  a  shrug. 1  Children  always  think 
the  worst  of  their  parents.    I  did  of  mine.    It's  a  pity. 

EDWARD.     Go  on,  sir,  go  on.    Let  me  know  the  worst. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  There's  no  immediate  danger.  I  should 
think  anyone  could  see  that  from  the  state  of  these  ac- 
counts.   There's  no  actual  danger  at  all. 

EDWARD.     Is  that  the  worst? 

MR.  VOYSEY.  \_His  anger  rising.']  Have  you  studied 
these  two  accounts,  or  have  you  not  ? 

EDWARD.    Yes,  sir. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Well,  whereas  the  deficiency  in  Mrs.  Mur- 
berry's  income  .  .  has  she  ever  gone  without  a  shilling? 
What  has  young  Hatherley  lost? 

EDWARD.    He  stands  to  lose 

MR.  VOYSEY.  He  stands  to  lose  nothing  if  I'm  spared  for 
a  little,  and  you  will  only  bring  a  little  common  sense  to 
bear,  and  try  to  understand  the  difficulties  of  my  position. 

EDWARD.  Father,  I'm  not  thinking  ill  of  you  .  .  that  is, 
I'm  trying  not  to.  But  won't  you  explain  how  you're 
justified — ? 

MR.  VOYSEY.    In  putting  our  affairs  in  order. 

EDWARD.    Are  you  doing  that? 

MR.  VOYSEY.    What  else? 

EDWARD.  {^Starting  patiently  to  exaniine  the  matter.] 
How  bad  were  things  when  you  first  came  to  control  them  ? 


ACT  i]       THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         11 

MR.  VOYSEY.    Oh,  I  forget. 

EDWARD.    You  can't  forget. 

MR.  VOYSEY.    Well  .  .  pretty  bad. 

EDWARD.  Do  you  loiow  how  it  was  my  grandfather  be- 
gan to 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Muddlement,  muddlement !  Then  the 
money  went,  and  what  was  he  to  do  ?  He'd  no  capital,  no 
credit,  and  was  in  terror  of  his  life.  My  dear  Edward, 
if  I  hadn't  found  it  out  he'd  have  confessed  to  the  first 
man  who  came  and  asked  for  a  balance  sheet. 

EDWARD.    Well,  what  exact  sum  was  he  to  the  bad  then  ? 

MR.  VOYSEY.     I  forget.     Several  thousands. 

EDWARD.  But  surely  it  has  not  taken  all  these  years  to 
pay  off 

MR.  VOYSEY.    Oh,  hasn't  it! 

EDWARD.  [Making  his  poinf]  But  how  does  it  happen, 
sir,  that  such  a  comparatively  recent  trust  as  young  Hath- 
erley's  has  been  broken  into? 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Well,  what  could  be  safer  than  to  use  that 
money?  There's  a  Consol  investment,  and  not  a  sight 
wanted  of  either  capital  or  interest  for  five  years. 

EDWARD.     [Utterly  beaten.']     Father,  are  you  mad? 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Certainly  not.  My  practice  is  to  reinvest 
my  clients'  money  when  it  is  entirely  under  my  control. 
The  difference  between  the  income  this  money  has  to  bring 
to  them  and  the  income  it  is  actually  bringing  to  me  I  util- 
ise in  my  endeavour  to  fill  up  the  deficit  in  the  firm's  ac- 
counts .  .  in  fact,  to  try  and  put  things  straight.  Doesn't 
it  follow  that  the  more  low  interest  bearing  capital  I  can 
use,  the  better  .  .  the  less  risky  things  I  have  to  put  it 
into.  Most  of  young  Hatherley's  Consol  capital  is  out  on 
mortgage  at  four  and  a  half  and  five  .  .  safe  as  safe 
can  be. 

EDWARD.    But  he  should  have  the  benefit. 

MR.  VOYSEY.    He  has  the  amount  of  his  consol  interest. 


12         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       [act  i 

EDWARD.     Are  the  mortgages  in  his  name? 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Some  of  them  .  .  some  of  them.  That's 
a  technical  matter.  With  regard  to  Mrs.  Murberry  .  . 
those  Fretworthy  Bonds  at  my  bank  .  .  Fve  raised  five 
thousand  en  them.  I  can  release  her  Bonds  to-morrow  if 
she  wants  them. 

EDWARD.     Where's  the  five  thousand. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  I  don't  know  .  .  It  was  paid  into  my  pri- 
vate account.  Yes,  I  do  remember.  Some  of  it  went  to 
complete  a  purchase  .  .  that  and  two  thousand  more  out 
of  the  Skipworth  fund. 

EDWARD.     But,  my  dear  father 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Well? 

EDWARD.  [Summing  it  all  up  very  simply."]  It's  not 
right. 

MR.  VOYSEY  considers  his  son  for  a  moment  with  a 
pitying  shake  of  the  head. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Oh  .  .  why  is  it  so  hard  for  a  man  to  see 
clearly  beyond  the  letter  of-thsjaw !  Will "yoii  consider  a 
moment,  Edward,  the  position  in  which  I  found  myself? 
Was  I  to  see  my  father  ruined  and  disgraced  without  lift- 
ing a  finger  to  help  him?  .  .  not  to»mention  the  interest  of 
the  clients.  I  paid  back  to  the  man  who  would  have  lost 
most  by  my  father's  mistakes  every  penny  of  his  money. 
He  never  knew  the  danger  he'd  been  in  .  .  never  passed 
an  uneasy  moment  about  it.  It  was  I  who  lay  awake.  I 
have  now  somewhere  a  letter  from  that  man  to  my  father 
thanking  him  effusively  for  the  way  in  which  he'd  conduct- 
ed some  matter.  It  comforted  my  poor  father.  Well, 
Edward,  I  stepped  outside  the  letter  of  the  law  to  do  that. 
Was  that  right  or  wrong? 

EDWARD.     In  its  result,  sir,  right. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Judge  me  by  the  result.  I  took  the  risk  of 
failure  .  .  I  should  have  suffered.  I  could  have  kept  clear 
of  the  danger  if  I'd  liked. 


ACT  i]       THE  YOYSEY  INHERITANCE         13 

EDWARD.  But  that's  all  past.  The  thing  that  concerns 
me  is  what  you  are  doing  now. 

MR.  voYSEY.  [Gently  reproachful  now.']  My  boy,  you 
must  trust  me  a  little.  It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  come  in 
at  the  end  of  the  day  and  criticise.  But  I,  who  have  done 
the  day's  work,  know  how  that  work  had  to  be  done.  And 
here's  our  firm,  prosperous,  respected,  and  without  a  stain 
on  its  honour.  That's  the  main  point,  isn't  it?  And  I  think 
that  achievement  should  earn  me  the  right  to  be  trusted  a 
little  .  .  shouldn't  it? 

EDWARD.  [Quite  irresponsive  to  this  pathetic  appeal.'] 
Look  here,  sir,  I'm  dismissing  from  my  mind  all  prejudice 
about  speaking  the  truth  .  .  acting  upon  one's  instructions, 
behaving  as  any  honest  firm  of  solicitors  must  behave  .  . 

MR.  VOYSEY.  You  need  not.  I  tell  no  unnecessary  lies. 
If  a  man  of  any  business  ability  gives  me  definite  instruc- 
tions about  his  property,  I  follow  them. 

EDWARD.     Father,  no  unnecessary  lies ! 

MR.  voYSEY.  Well,  my  friend,  go  and  tell  Mrs.  Murberry 
that  four  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  of  her  income  hasn't 
for  the  last  eight  years  come  from  the  place  she  thinks  it's 
come  from,  and  see  how  happy  you'll  make  her. 

EDWARD.  But  is  that  four  hundred  and  twenty  a  year  as 
safe  to  come  to  her  as  it  was  before  you  meddled  with  the 
capital  ? 

MR.  voYSEY.     I  see  no  reason  why 

EDWARD.     What's  the  security? 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [Putting  his  coping  stone  on  the  argu- 
ment.]    My  financial  ability. 

EDWARD.  [Really  not  knowing  whether  to  laugh  or  cry.] 
Why,  it  seems  as  if  you  were  satisfied  with  this  state  of 
things. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Edward,  you  really  are  most  unsympathetic 
and  unreasonable.  I  give  all  I  have  to  the  firm's  work  .  . 
my  brain  .  .  my  energies  ,  .  my  whole  life.    I  can't  turn 


14         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       [act  i 

my  abilities  into  hard  cash  at  par  .  .  I  wish  I  could.  Do 
you  suppose  that  if  I  could  establish  every  one  of  these  peo- 
ple with  a  separate  and  consistent  bank  balance  to-morrow 
that  I  shouldn't  do  it  ?  Do  you  suppose  that  it's  a  pleasure 
.  .  that  it's  relaxation  to  have  these  matters  continually  on 
one's  mind?    Do  you  suppose — ? 

EDWARD.  [Thankfully  able  to  meet  anger  with  anger.'] 
I  find  it  impossible  to  believe  that  you  couldn't  somehow 
have  put  things  to  rights  by  now. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Oh,  do  you  ?    Somehow ! 

EDWARD.  In  thirty  years  the  whole  system  must  either 
have  come  hopelessly  to  grief  .  .  or  during  that  time  there 
must  have  been  opportunities 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Well,  if  you're  so  sure,  I  hope  that  when 
I'm  under  ground  you  may  find  them. 

EDWARD.      I ! 

MR.  VOYSEY.  And  put  everything  right  with  a  stroke  of 
the  pen,  if  it's  so  easy ! 

EDWARD.       I  ! 

MR.  VOYSEY.  You're  my  partner  and  my  son,  and  you'll 
inherit  the  business. 

EDWARD.  [Realising  at  last  that  he  has  been  led  to  the 
edge  of  this  abyss.]     Oh,  no,  father. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Why  else  have  I  had  to  tell  you  all  this  ? 

EDWARD.  [Very  simply.]  Father,  I  can't.  I  can't  pos- 
sibly.   I  don't  think  you've  any  right  to  ask  me. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Why  not,  pray  ? 

EDWARD.     It's  perpetuating  the  dishonesty. 

MR.  VOYSEY  hardens  at  the  unpleasant  word. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  You  don't  believe  that  I've  told  you  the 
truth. 

EDWARD.    I  wish  to  bcHeve  it. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  It's  no  proof  .  .  that  I've  earned  these 
twenty  or  thirty  people  their  incomes  for  the  last — how 
many  years? 


ACT  i]       THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         15 

EDWARD.  Whether  what  you  have  done  and  are  doing 
is  wrong  or  right  .  .  I  can't  meddle  in  it. 

For  the  moment  mr.  voysey  looks  a  little  dangerous, 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Very  well.  Forget  all  IVe  said.  Go  back 
to  your  room.  Get  back  to  your  own  mean  drudgery.  My 
life's  work — my  splendid  life's  work — ruined !  What  does 
that  matter? 

EDWARD.    Whatever  did  you  expect  of  me? 

MR.  VOYSEY.  {Making  a  feint  at  his  papers.']  Oh,  noth- 
ing, nothing.  [Then  he  slams  them  down  with  great  ef- 
fect.'] Here's  a  great  edifice  built  up  by  years  of  labour 
and  devotion  and  self-sacrifice  .  .  a  great  arch  you  may 
call  it  .  .  a  bridge  which  is  to  carry  our  firm  to  safety  with 
honour.  \_This  variation  of  Disraeli  passes  unnoticed.]  My 
work !  And  now,  as  I  near  the  end  of  my  life,  it  still  lacks 
the  key-stone.  Perhaps  I  am  to  die  with  my  work  just 
incomplete.  Then  is  there  nothing  that  a  son  might  do? 
Do  you  think  I  shouldn't  be  proud  of  you,  Edward  .  .  that 
I  shouldn't  bless  you  from — wherever  I  may  be,  when  you 
completed  my  life's  work  .  .  with  perhaps  just  one  kindly 
thought  of  your  father  ? 

In  spite  of  this  oratory,  the  situation  is  gradually 
impressing  edward. 

EDWARD.    What  will  happen  if  I  ..  if  I  desert  you? 

MR.  VOYSEY.     I'll  protect  you  as  best  I  can. 

EDWARD.     I  wasn't  thinking  of  myself,  sir. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [With  great  nonchalance.]  Well,  I  shan't 
mind  the  exposure,  you  know.  It  won't  make  me  blush  in 
my  coffin  .  .  and  you're  not  so  foolish,  I  hope,  as  to  be 
thinking  of  the  feelings  of  your  brothers  and  sisters.  Con- 
sidering how  simple  it  would  have  been  for  me  to  go  to  my 
grave  in  peace  and  quiet,  and  let  you  discover  the  whole 
thing  afterwards,  the  fact  that  I  didn't,  that  I  have  taken 
some  thought  for  the  future  of  all  of  you  might  perhaps 


'is' 

16         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       [act  i 

have  convinced  you   that  I  .  .    !     But   there  .  .  consult 
your  own  safety. 

EDWARD  has  begun   to  pace  the   room,  indecision 
growing  upon  him. 

EDWARD.  This  is  a  queer  thing  to  have  to  make  up  one's 
mind  about,  isn't  it,  father? 

MR.  voYSEY.  [Watching  him  closely,  and  modulating  his 
voice.]  My  dear  boy,  I  understand  the  shock  to  your  feel- 
ings that  this  disclosure  must  have  been. 

EDWARD.  Yes,  I  thought  this  morning  that  next  week 
would  see  us  in  the  dock  together. 

MR.  voYSEY.  And  I  suppose  if  I'd  broken  down,  and 
begged  your  pardon  for  my  folly,  you'd  have  done  any- 
thing for  me,  gone  to  prison  smiling,  eh? 

EDWARD.      I  suppose  SO. 

[SEY.  Yes.  it*s  easy  enough^-to-feF^e.  I'm  sorry 
I  can*t  go  in  sack  cloth  and  ashes  to  oblige  you.  \_Now 
he  begins  to  rally  his  son;  easy  in  his  strength.']  My  dear 
Edward,  you've  lived  a  quiet,  humdrum  life  up  to  now, 
with  your  books  and  your  philosophy  and  your  agnosticism 
and  your  ethics  of  this  and  your  ethics  of  that  .  .  dear  me, 
these  are  the  sort  of  garden  oats  which  young  men  seem 
to  sow  now-a-days !  ,  .  and  you've  never  before  been 
brought  face  to  face  with  any  really  vital  question.  Now 
don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself  just  through  inexperience. 
Try  and  give  your  mind  freely  and  unprejudicedly  to  the 
consideration  of  this  very  serious  matter.  I'm  not  angry 
at  what  you've  said  to  me.  I'm  quite  willing  to  forget  it. 
And  it's  for  your  own  sake,  and  not  for  mine,  Edward, 
that  I  do  beg  you  to — to — to  be  a  man,  and  try  and  take  a 
practical  common  sense  view  of  the  position  you  find  your- 
self in.  It's  not  a  pleasant  position,  I  know,  but  it's 
unavoidable. 

EDWARD.  You  should  havc  told  me  before  you  took  me 
into  partnership.     [Oddly  enough,  it  is  this  last  flicker  of 


ACT  i]       THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         17 

rebellion  which  breaks  down  mr.  voysey^s  caution.    Now 
he  lets  fly  with  a  vengeance.'] 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Should  I  be  telling  you  at  all  if  I  could 
possibly  help  it  ?  Don't  I  know  that  you're  about  as  fit  for 
this  job  as  a  babe  unborn  ?  Haven't  I  been  worrying  over 
that  for  these  last  three  years?  But  I'm  in  a  corner  .  .  and 
I  won't  see  all  this  work  of  mine  come  to  smash  simply  be- 
cause of  your  scruples.  If  you're  a  son  of  mine  you'll  do 
as  I  tell  you.  Hadn't  I  the  same  choice  to  make?  .  .  and 
this  is  a  safer  game  for  you  than  it  was  for  me  then.  D'you 
suppose  I  didn't  have  scruples?  H  you  run  away  from 
this,  Edward,  you're  a  coward.  My  father  was  a  coward, 
and  he  suffered  for  it  to  the  end  of  his  days.  I  was  sick- 
nurse  to  him  here  more  than  partner.  Good  Lord !  .  .  of 
course  it's  pleasant  and  comfortable  to  keep  within  the  law 
.  .  then  the  law  will  look  after  you.  Otherwise  you  have 
to  look  pretty  sharp  after  yourself.  You  have  to  cultivate 
yo^ own^ense  of  right  and  wrong;  deal  your  own  justice. 

But  thaf  rnaI?ranTTw»'f><;.jTiar|  nf  jy^^rr-tpfynp  tell  VOU»_How 


easriy~r~;  how  tsisily  Tguld  1  have  walked  out  of  myia- 
ther's  office  and  left  him  to  his  fate;  no  one  would  have 
blamed  me !  But  I  didn't.  I  thought  it  my  better  duty  to 
stay  and  .  .  yes,  I  say  it  with  all  reverence  .  .  to  take  up 
my  cross.  Well,  I've  carried  that  cross  pretty  successfully. 
And  what's  more,  it's  made  a  happy  man  of  me  .  .  a  bet- 
ter, stronger  man  than  skulking  about  in  shame  and  in  fear 
of  his  life  ever  made  of  my  poor  dear  father.  [Relieved 
at  having  let  out  the  truth,  but  doubtful  of  his  wisdom  in 
doing  so,  he  changes  his  tone.]  I  don't  want  what  I've 
been  saying  to  influence  you,  Edward.  You  are  a  free 
agent  .  .  and  you  must  decide  upon  your  own  course  of 
action.  Now  don't  let's  discuss  the  matter  any  more  for 
the  moment. 

EDWARD  looks  at  his  father  with  clear  eyes. 
EDWARD.     Don't  forget  to  put  these  papers  away. 


18  THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  i 

He  restores  them  to  their  bundles  and  hands  them 
hack;  it  is  his  only  comment,  mr.  voysey  takes  them 
and  his  meaning  in  silence. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Are  you  coming  down  to  Chislehurst  soon? 
We've  got  Hugh  and  his  w^ife,  and  Booth  and  Emily,  and 
Christopher  for  two  or  three  days,  till  he  goes  back  to 
school. 

EDWARD.    How  is  Chris? 

MR.  VOYSEY.  All  right  again  now  .  .  grows  more  like 
his  father.    Booth's  very  proud  of  him.     So  am  I. 

EDWARD.    I  think  I  can't  face  them  all  just  at  present. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Nonsense. 

EDWARD.  [A  little  wave  of  emotion  going  through  him.'] 
I  feel  as  if  this  thing  were  written  on  my  face.  How  I 
shall  get  through  business  I  don't  know ! 

MR.  VOYSEY.     You're  weaker  than  I  thought,  Edward. 

EDWARD.  [A  little  ironically.']  A  disappointment  to  you, 
father? 

MR.  VOYSEY.      No,  nO. 

EDWARD.  You  should  havc  brought  one  of  the  others 
into  the  firm  .  .  Trenchard  or  Booth. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [Hardenifig.]  Trenchard !  [He  dismisses 
that.]  Well,  you're  a  better  man  than  Booth.  Edward, 
you  mustn't  imagine  that  the  whole  world  is  standing  on 
its  head  merely  because  you've  had  an  unpleasant  piece  of 
news.  You  come  down  to  Chislehurst  to-night  .  .  well, 
say  to-morrow  night.  It'll  be  good  for  you  .  .  stop  your 
brooding  .  .  that's  your  worst  vice,  Edward.  You'll  find 
the  household  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Then  you'll 
remember  that  nothing  really  has  happened.  And  pres- 
ently you'll  get  to  see  that  nothing  need  happen,  if  you 
keep  your  head.  I  remember  times,  when  things  have 
seemed  at  their  worst,  what  a  relief  it's  been  to  me  .  .  my 
romp  with  you  all  in  the  nursery  just  before  your  bed 
time.    Do  you  remember? 


ACT  i]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         19 

EDWARD.     Yes.   I  cut  your  head  open  once  with  that  gun. 
MR.  VOYSEY.     [/«  a  full  glow  of  fine  feeling.']     And,  my 
dear  boy,  if  I  knew  that  you  were  going  to  inform  the 
next  client  you  met  of  what  I've  just  told  you  .  . 
EDWARD.     [With  a  shudder.']     Oh,  father ! 
MR.  VOYSEY.  .  .  And  that  I  should  find  myself  in  prison 
to-morrow,  I  wouldn't  wish  a  single  thing  I've  ever  done 
undone.     I  have  never  wilfully  harmed  man  or  woman. 
My  life's  been  a  happy  one.    Your  dear  mother  has  been 
spared  to  me.    You're  most  of  you  good  children,  and  a 
credit  to  what  I've  done  for  you. 

EDWARD.     [The  deadly  humour"  of  this  too  much  for 
him,]    Father ! 

MR.  VOYSEY.    Run  along  now,  run  along.    I  must  finish 
my  letters  and  get  into  the  City. 

He  might  be  scolding  a  schoolboy  for  some  triHing 
fault.  EDWARD  turns  to  have  a  look  at  the  keen,  un- 
embarrassed face.  MR.  VOYSEY  smiles  at  him  and 
proceeds  to  select  from  the  bowl  a  rose  for  his 
buttonhole. 
EDWARD.     I'll  think  it  over,  sir. 

MR.  VOYSEY.    Of  course  you  will.     And  don't  brood, 
Edward,  don't  brood. 

So  EDWARD  leaves  him;  and  having  fixed  the  rose  to 

his  satisfaction,  he  rings  his  table  telephone  and 

calls  through  it  to  the  listening  clerk. 

Send  Atkinson  to  me,  please.     [Then  he  gets  up,  keys  in 

hand,  to  lock  away  Mrs.  Murberry's  and  the  Hatherley 

trust  papers.] 


so        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  n 


THE  SECOND  ACT 

The  VOYSEY  dining-room  at  Chislehurst,  when  children  and 
grandchildren  are  visiting,  is  dining-tahle  and  very 
little  else.  And  at  this  moment  in  the  evening,  when 
jive  or  six  men  are  sprawling  hack  in  their  chairs, 
atid  the  air  is  clouded  with  smoke,  it  is  a  very  typ- 
ical specimen  of  the  middle-class  English  domestic 
temple;  the  daily  sacrifice  consummated,  the  acolytes 
dismissed,  the  women  safely  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  the  chief  priests  of  it  taking  their  surfeited  ease 
round  the  dessert-piled  altar.  It  has  the  usual  red- 
papered  walls  {like  a  reflection,  they  are,  of  the  un- 
derdone beef  so  much  consumed  within  them)  ;  the 
usual  varnished  woodwork,  which  is  known  as- 
grained  oak;  there  is  the  usual  hot,  mahogany  furni- 
ture; and,  commanding  point  of  the  whole  room, 
there  is  the  usual  black-marble  sarcophagus  of  a 
fireplace.  Above  this  hangs  one  of  the  two  or  three 
oil  paintings,  which  are  all  that  break  the  red  pat- 
tern of  the  walls,  the  portrait  painted  in  1880  of  an 
undistinguished  looking  gentleman  aged  sixty;  he  is 
shown  sitting  in  a  more  graceful  attitude  than  it 
could  ever  have  been  comfortable  for  him  to  assume. 
MR.  voYSEY''s  father  it  is,  and  the  brass  plate  at  the 
bottom  of  the  frame  tells  us  that  the  portrait  was  a 
presentation  one.  On  the  mantelpiece  stands,  of 
course,  a  clock;  at  either  end  a  china  vase  filled  with 
paper  spills.    And  in  front  of  the  fire — since  that  is 


for  >  ' 


ACT  ii]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         ^1 

the  post  of  vantage,  stands  at  this  moment  major 
BOOTH  VOYSEY.  He  is  the  second  son,  of  the  age  that 
it  is  necessary  for  a  Major  to  be,  and  of  an  appear- 
ance that  many  ordinary  Majors  in  ordinary  regi- 
ments are.  He  went  into  the  army  because  he 
thought  it  would  be  like  a  schoolboy's  idea  of  it; 
and,  being  there,  he  does  his  little  all  to  keep  it  so. 
He  stands  astride,  hands  in  pockets,  coat-tails 
through  his  arms,  cigar  in  mouth,  moustache  brist- 
ling. On  either  side  of  him  sits  at  the  table  an  old 
gentleman;  the  one  is  mr.  evan  colpus,  the  vicar  of 
their  parish,  the  other  mr.  george  booth,  a  friend  of 
long  standing,  and  the  Major^s  godfather,  mr.  •col- 
pus  is  a  harmless  enough  anachronism,  except  for 
the  waste  of  £400  a  year  in  which  his  stipend  in- 
volves the  community.  Leaving  most  of  his  paro- 
chial work  to  an  energetic  curate,  he  devotes  his 
serious  attention  to  the  composition  of  two  sermons 
a  week.  They  deal  with  the  difficulties  of  living  the 
Christian  life  as  experienced  by  people  who  have 
nothing  else  to  do.  Published  in  series  from  time 
to  time,  these  form  suitable  presents  for  bedridden  ^  , 
parishioners,  mr.  george  booth,  on  the  contrary,  is  \  y  f*^^ 
as  gay  an  old  gentleman  as  can  be  found  in  Chisle-  ^ 
hurst.  An  only  son;  his  father  left  him  at  the  age 
of  twenty-five  a  fortune  of  a  hundred  thousand 
pounds  (a  plum,  as  he  called  it).  At  the  same  time 
he  had  the  good  sense  to  dispose  of  his  father's  busi- 
ness, into  which  he  had  been  most  unwillingly  intro- 
duced five  years  earlier,  for  a  like  sum  before  he 
was  able  to  depreciate  its  value.  It  was  mr.  voysey's 
invaluable  assistance  in  this  transaction  which  first 
bound  the  two  together  in  great  friendship.  Since 
that  time  Mr.  Booth  has  been  bent  on  nothing  but 
enjoying  himself.    He  has  even  remained  a  bachelor 


f.jfv., 


%%        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  ii 

•with  that  object.  Money  has  given  him  all  he  wants, 
therefore  he  loves  and  reverences  money;  while  his 
imagination  may  he  estimated  by  the  fact  that  he 
has  now  reached  the  age  of  sixty-five  still  possess- 
ing more  of  it  than  he  knows  what  to  do  with.  At 
the  head  of  the  table,  meditatively  cracking  walnuts, 
sits  MR.  VOYSEY.  He  has  his  back  there  to  the  con- 
servatory door — you  knozv  it  is  the  conservatory 
door  because  there  is  a  curtain  to  pull  over  it,  and 
because  half  of  it  is  frosted  glass  with  a  purple  key 
pattern  round  the  edge.  On  mr.  voysey^s  left  is 
DENIS  TREGONiNG,  a  nicc  cuough  young  man.  And 
at  the  other  end  of  the  table  sits  edward,  not  smok- 
ing, not  talking,  hardly  listening,  very  depressed. 
Behind  him  is  the  ordinary  door  of  the  room,  which 
leads  out  into  the  dismal,  draughty  hall.  The  Ma- 
jor's voice  is  like  the  sound  of  a  cannon  through 
the  tobacco  smoke. 
MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  Of  couFse  I'm  hot  and  strong 
for  conscription  .  . 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     My  deaf  boy,  the  country'd  never 

stand  it.    No  Englishman 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  {^Dropping  the  phrase  heavily 
upon  the  poor  old  gentleman.]  I  beg  your  pardon.  If  v^e 
.  .  the  Army  .  .  say  to  the  country  .  .  Upon  our  honour, 
conscription  is  necessary  for  your  safety  .  .  what  answer 
has  the  country?  What?  [He  pauses  defiantly. '\  There 
you  are  .  .  none ! 

TREGONiNG.  Booth  will  imagine  because  one  doesn't 
argue  that  one  has  nothing  to  say.  You  ask  the  country. 
MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  Perhaps  I  will.  Perhaps  I'll 
chuck  the  Service  and  go  into  the  House.  [Then  falling 
into  the  sing  song  of  a  favourite  phrase.]  I'm  not  a  con- 
ceited man  .  .  but  I  believe  that  if  I  speak  out  upon  a 
subject  I  understand,  and  only  upon  that  subject,  the  House 


ACT  ii]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         ^3 

will  listen  .  .  and  if  others  followed  my  example  we 
should  be  a  far  more  business-like  and  go-ahead  commu- 
nity. 

He  pauses  for  breath,  and  mr.  booth  seizes  the 
opportunity. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  If  you  think  the  gentlemen  of  Eng- 
land will  allow  themselves  to  be  herded  with  a  lot  of  low 
fellers  and  made  to  carry  guns — ! 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  {Obliterating  him  once  more.'] 
Just  one  moment.  Have  you  thought  of  the  physical  im- 
provement which  conscription  would  bring  about  in  the 
manhood  of  the  country  ?  What  England  wants  is  Chest ! 
[He  generously  inflates  his  own.]  Chest  and  Discipline. 
I  don't  care  how  it's  obtained.  Why,  we  suffer  from  a 
lack  of  it  in  our  homes 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [With  the  crack  of  a  nut.]  Your  godson 
talks  a  deal,  don't  he  ?  You  know,  when  Booth  gets  into  a 
club  he  gets  on  the  committee  .  .  gets  on  any  committee 
to  enquire  into  anything  .  .  and  then  goes  on  at  'em  just 
like  this.    Don't  you.  Booth? 

BOOTH  knuckles  under  easily  enough  to  his  father's 
sarcasm. 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  Well,  sir,  people  tell  me  I'm  a 
useful  man  on  committees. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  I  don't  doubt  it  .  .  your  voice  must  drown 
all  discussion. 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  You  Can't  say  I  don't  listen  to 
you,  sir. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  I  don't  .  .  and  I'm  not  blaming  you.  But 
I  must  say  I  often  think  what  a  devil  of  a  time  the  family 
will  have  with  you  when  I'm  gone.  Fortunately  for  your 
poor  mother,  she's  deaf. 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  And  wouldu't  you  wish  me,  sir, 
as  eldest  son  .  .  .  Trenchard  not  counting  .  .  . 

MR.  VOYSEY.     [With  the  crack  of  another  nut.]     Tren- 


M        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  ii 

chard  not  counting.  By  all  means,  bully  them.  Get  up 
your  subjects  a  bit  better,  and  then  bully  them.  I  don't 
manage  things  that  way  myself,  but  I  think  it's  your  best 
chance  .  .  if  there  weren't  other  people  present  I'd  say 
your  only  chance.  Booth. 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  [With  somc  discomfortJ]  Ha! 
If  I  were  a  conceited  man,  sir,  I  could  trust  you  to  take  it 
out  of  me. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [^As  he  taps  mr.  booth  with  the  nut  crack- 
ers.'] Help  yourself,  George,  and  drink  to  your  godson's 
health.  Long  may  he  keep  his  chest  notes !  Never  heard 
him  on  parade,  have  you? 

TREGONING.  I  noticc  military  men  must  display  them- 
selves .  .  that's  why  Booth  acts  as  a  firescreen.  I  believe 
that  after  mess  that  position  is  positively  rushed. 

major  booth  VOYSEY.  [Cheering  to  find  an  opponent 
he  can  tackle.']  li  you  want  a  bit  of  fire,  say  so,  you  suck- 
ing Lord  Chancellor.  Because  I  mean  to  allow  you  to  be 
my  brother-in-law  you  think  you  can  be  impertinent. 

So  TREGONING  movcs  to  the  fire,  and  that  changes 
the  conversation. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  By  the  bye.  Vicar,  you  were  at  Lady  Mary's 
yesterday.  Is  she  giving  us  anything  towards  that  window  ? 

MR.  COLPUS.  Five  pounds  more;  she  has  promised  me 
five  pounds. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Then  how  will  the  debt  stand  ? 

MR.  COLPUS.     Thirty-three  .  .  no,  thirty-two  pounds. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     We're  a  long  time  clearing  it  off. 

MR.  COLPUS.  [Gently  querulous.]  Yes,  now  that  the 
window  is  up,  people  don't  seem  so  ready  to  contribute  as 
they  were. 

TREGONING.     We  must  mention  that  to  Hugh ! 

MR.  COLPUS.  [Tactful  at  once.]  Not  that  the  work  is 
not  universally  admired.  I  have  heard  Hugh's  design 
praised  by  quite  competent  judges.     But  certainly  I  feel 


ACT  ii]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         ^5 

now  it  might  have  been  wiser  to  have  delayed  the  unveil- 
ing until  the  money  was  forthcoming. 

TREGONiNG.  Never  deliver  goods  to  the  Church  on 
credit. 

MR.  coLPus.  Eh  ?  [TREGONING  kfiows  he  is  Q  little  hard 
of  hearing.'] 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Well,  as  it  was  my  wish  that  my  son 
should  do  the  design,  I  suppose  in  the  end  I  shall  have 
to  send  you  a  cheque. 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.    Auouymously. 

MR.  COLPUS.     Oh,  that  would  be 

MR.  VOYSEY.  No,  why  should  I?  Here,  George  Booth, 
you  shall  halve  it  with  me. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     I'm  damned  if  I  do. 

MR.  COLPUS.  [Proceeding,  conveniently  deaf.']  You  re- 
member that  at  the  meeting  we  had  of  the  parents  and 
friends  to  decide  on  the  positions  of  the  names  of  the  poor 
fellows  and  the  regiments  and  coats  of  arms  and  so  on  .  . 
when  Hugh  said  so  violently  that  he  disapproved  of  the 
war  and  made  all  those  remarks  about  land-lords  and 
Bibles  and  said  he  thought  of  putting  in  a  figure  of  Brit- 
annia blushing  for  shame  or  something  .  .  I'm  beginning 
to  fear  that  may  have  created  a  bad  impression. 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  Why  should  they  mind  .  .  what 
on  earth  does  Hugh  know  about  war?  He  couldn't  tell 
a  battery  horse  from  a  bandsman.  I  don't  pretend  to 
criticise  art.  I  think  the  window'd  be  very  pretty  if  it 
wasn't  so  broken  up  into  bits. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  [Fortified  by  his  '^damned"  and  his 
last  glass  of  port.]  These  young  men  are  so  ready  with 
their  disapproval.  Criticism  starts  in  the  cradle  nowadays. 
When  I  was  young,  people  weren't  always  questioning 
this  and  questioning  that. 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.    Lack  of  discipline. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     [Hurrying  on.]     The  way  a  man 


£6        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  n 

now  even  stops  to  think  what  he's  eating  and  drinking. 
And  in  reHgious  matters  .  .  Vicar,  I  put  it  to  you  .  . 
there's  no  uniformity  at  all. 

MR.  COLPUS.  Ah  .  .  I  try  to  keep  myself  free  from  the 
disturbing  influences  of  modern  thought. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  Young  men  must  be  forming  their 
own  opinions  about  this  and  their  opinions  about  that. 
You  know,  Edward,  you're  worse  even  than  Hugh  is. 

EDWARD.  [Glancing  up  mildly  at  this  sudden  attack.'] 
What  have  I  done,  Mr.  Booth? 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  [Not  the  readiest  of  men.']  Well  .  . 
aren't  you  one  of  those  young  men  who  go  about  the 
world  making  difficulties? 

EDWARD.     What  sort  of  difficulties? 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  [Triumphantly.]  Just  so  .  .  I 
never  can  make  out.  Surely  when  you're  young  you  can 
ask  the  advice  of  your  elders  and  when  you  grow  up  you 
find  Laws  .  .  lots  of  laws  divine  and  human  laid  down 
for  our  guidance.  [Well  in  possession  of  the  conversation 
he  spreads  his  little  self.]  I  look  back  over  a  fairly  long 
life  and  .  .  perhaps  I  should  say  by  Heaven's  help  .  .  I 
find  nothing  that  I  can  honestly  reproach  myself  with. 
And  yet  I  don't  think  I  ever  took  more  than  five  minutes 
to  come  to  a  decision  upon  any  important  point.  One's 
private  life  is,  I  think,  one's  own  affair  .  .  I  should  allow 
no  one  to  pry  into  that.  But  as  to  worldly  things  .  .  well, 
I  have  come  into  several  sums  of  money  and  my  capital 
is  still  intact  .  .  ask  your  father,  [mr.  voysey  nods 
gravely.]  I've  never  robbed  any  man.  I've  never  lied 
over  anything  that  mattered.  As  a  citizen  I  pay  my 
taxes  without  grumbling  very  much.  Yes,  and  I  sent 
conscience  money  too  upon  one  occasion.  I  consider 
that  any  man  who  takes  the  trouble  can  live  the  life  of  a 
gentleman.     [And  he  iinds  that  his  cigar  is  out.^ 


ACT  ii]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         27 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  [Not  to  be  outdofie  by  this  dis- 
play of  virtue.']     Well^  I'm  not  a  conceited  man,  but 

TREGONiNG.    Are  you  sure,  Booth? 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  Shut  Up.  I  was  going  to  say 
when  my  young  cub  of  a  brother-in-law-to-be  interrupted 
me,  that  Training,  for  which  we  all  have  to  be  thank- 
ful to  you,  Sir,  has  much  to  do  with  it.  [Suddenly  he 
pulls  his  trousers  against  his  legs.]  I  say,  I'm  scorching ! 
D'you  want  another  cigar,  Denis? 

TREGONING.     No,  thank  you. 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.      I  do. 

And  he  glances  round,  but  tregoning  sees  a  box  on 
the  table  and  reaches  it.     The  Vicar  gets  up. 
MR.  COLPUS.     M-m-m-must  be  taking  my  departure. 
MR.  VOYSEY.    Already! 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  [Frowning  upon  the  cigar  box.1 
No,  not  those.  Where  are  the  Ramon  AUones?  What 
on  earth  has  Honor  done  with  them? 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Spare  time  for  a  chat  with  Mrs.  Voysey 
before  you  go.    She  has  ideas  about  a  children's  tea  fight. 
MR.  coLPUs.     Certainly  I  will. 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.     [ScowUng  hclplcssly  around.] 
My  goodness !  .  .  one  can  never  find  anything  in   this 
house. 
MR.  COLPUS.     I  won't  say  good-bye  then. 

He  is  sliding  through  the  half  opened  door  when 
ETHEL   meets   him  flinging   it  wide.     She  is   the 
younger   daughter,   the   baby   of   the   family,   but 
twenty-three  now. 
MR.  VOYSEY.     I  say,  it's  cold  again  to-night !    An  ass  of 
an  architect  who  built  this  place  .  .  such  a  draught  be- 
tween these  two  doors. 

He  gets  up  to  draw  the  curtain.  When  he  turns 
coLPus  has  disappeared,  while  ethel  has  been  fol- 
lowed into  the  room  by  alice  maitland,  who  shuts 


28         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  n 

the  door  after  her.  miss  alice  maitland  is  a 
young  lady  of  any  age  to  thirty.  Nor  need  her 
appearance  alter  for  the  next  -fifteen  years;  since 
her  nature  is  healthy  and  well-balanced.  She  pos- 
sesses indeed  the  sort  of  athletic  chastity  which  is 
a  characteristic  charm  of  Northern  spinsterhood. 
It  mayn't  be  a  pretty  face,  but  it  has  alertness  and 
humour;  and  the  resolute  eyes  and  eyebrows  are  a 
more  innocent  edition  of  mr.  voysey's,  who  is  her 
uncle.  ETHEL  goes  straight  to  her  father  [^though 
her  glance  is  on  denis  and  his  on  her"]  and  chirps, 
birdlike,  in  her  spoiled-child  way. 
ETHEL.    We   think  you've   stayed   in   here   quite   long 

enough. 

MR.  VOYSEY.    That's  to  say,  Ethel  thinks  Denis  has  been 

kept  out  of  her  pocket  much  too  long. 

ETHEL.     Ethel  wants  billiards  .  .  not  proper  billiards  .  . 

snooker  or  something.     Oh,  Papa,  what  a  dessert  you've 

eaten.    Greedy  pig! 

ALICE  is  standing  behind  edward,  considering  his 
hair-parting  apparently. 
ALICE.    Crack  me  a  filbert,  please,   Edward  .  .  I  had 

none. 

EDWARD.   [Jumping  up,  rather  formally,  well-mannered.^ 

I  beg  your  pardon,  Alice.    Won't  you  sit  down? 

ALICE.     No. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [Taking  ethel  on  his  knee."]  Come  here, 
puss.  Have  you  made  up  your  mind  yet  what  you  want 
for  a  wedding  present? 

ETHEL.  [Rectifying  a  stray  hair  in  his  beard."]  After 
mature  consideration,  I  decide  on  a  cheque. 

MR.  VOYSEY.    Do  you ! 

ETHEL.  Yes,  I  think  that  a  cheque  will  give  most  scope 
to  your  generosity.  Of  course,  if  you  desire  to  add  any 
trimmings  in  the  shape  of  a  piano  or  a  Turkey  carpet  you 


ACT  ii]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         ^9 

may  .  .  and  Denis  and  I  will  be  very  grateful.  But  I 
think  I'd  let  yourself  go  over  a  cheque. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     You're  a  minx. 

ETHEL.  What  is  the  use  of  having  money  if  you  don't 
spend  it  on  me? 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  [^Giving  up  the  cigar  search."] 
Here,  who's  going  to  play? 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  [Pathetically  as  he  gets  up.']  Well, 
if  my  wrist  will  hold  out  .  . 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.       [To  TREGONING.]      No,  dou't  yOU 

bother  to  look  for  them.  [He  strides  from  the  room,  his 
voice  echoing  through  the  hall.]  Honor,  where  are  those 
Ramon  Allones? 

ALICE.  [Calling  after.]  She's  in  the  drawing-room 
with  Auntie  and  Mr.  Colpus. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Now  I  should  suggest  that  you  and  Denis 
go  and  take  off  the  billiard  table  cover.  You'll  find  folding 
it  up  is  a  very  excellent  amusement. 

He  illustrates  his  meaning  with  his  table  napkin 
and  by  putting  together  the  tips  of  his  forefingers, 
roguishly. 

ETHEL.  I  am  not  going  to  blush.  I  do  kiss  Denis  .  . 
occasionally  .  .  when  he  asks  me. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     [Tcasing  her.]     You  are  blushing. 

ETHEL.  I  am  not.  If  you  think  we're  ashamed  of  being 
in  love,  we're  not,  we're  very  proud  of  it.  We  will  go 
and  take  off  the  billiard  table  cover  and  fold  it  up  .  .  and 
then  you  can  come  in  and  play.  Denis,  my  dear,  come 
along  solemnly,  and  if  you  flinch  I'll  never  forgive  you. 
[She  marches  off  and  reaches  the  door  before  her  defiant 
dignity  breaks  down;  then  suddenly — ]  Denis,  I'll  race 
you. 

And  she  flashes  out.  den  is,  loyal,  but  with  no  his- 
trionic instincts,  follows  her  rather  sheepishly. 

DENIS.    Ethel,  I  can't  after  dinner. 


30         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  n 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Women  play  that  game  better  than  men. 
A  A  man  shuffles  through  courtship  with  one  eye  on  her 
\*  relations. 

The  Major  comes  stalking  back,  followed  in  a  fear- 
ful flurry  by  his  elder  sister,  honor.  Poor  honor 
{her  female  friends  are  apt  to  refer  to  her  as  Poor 
honor]  is  a  phenomenon  common  to  most  large 
.families.  From  her  earliest  years  she  has  been  bot- 
tle washer  to  her  brothers.  While  they  were  expen- 
sively educated,  she  was  grudged  schooling;  her 
highest  accomplishment  was  meant  to  be  mending 
their  clothes.  Her  fate  is  a  curious  survival  of  the 
intolerance  of  parents  towards  her  sex  until  the 
vanity  of  their  hunger  for  sons  had  been  satisfied. 
In  a  less  humane  society  she  would  have  been  ex- 
posed at  birth.  But  if  a  very  general  though  pat- 
ronising affection,  accompanied  by  no  consideration 
at  all,  can  bestow  happiness,  honor  is  not  unhappy 
4n  her  survival.  At  this  moment,  however,  her  life 
is  a  burden. 
major  booth  VOYSEY.  Honor,  they  are  not  in  the  dining- 
room. 

HONOR.    But  they  must  be !    Where  else  can  they  be? 
She  has  a  hnhit  of  accentuating  one  word  in  each 
sentence,  and  often  the  wrong  one. 
MAJOR  BOOTH  voY.<5KY.     That's  what  you  ought  to  know. 
MR.  VOYSEY.     [As  he  moves  towards  the  door.']    Well  .  . 
will  you  have  a  game? 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.    1*11  play  you  fifty  up,  not  more.  Fm 
getting  old. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     {Stopping  at  a  dessert  dish.]    Yes,  these 
are  good  apples  of  Bearman's.    I  think  six  of  my  trees 
are  spoilt  this  year. 
HONOR.    Here  you  are,  Booth. 


/  w 


ACT  II]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE        .31 

She  triumphantly  discovers  the  discarded  box,  at 
which  the  Major  becomes  pathetic  with  indignation, 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  Oh,  HoHor,  don't  be  such  a  fool. 
These  are  what  we've  been  smoking.  I  want  the  Ramon 
Allones. 

HONOR.     I  don't  know  the  difference. 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  No,  you  don't ;  but  you  might 
learn. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [In  a  voice  like  the  crack  of  a  very  fine 
whip.l    Booth. 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.     [Subduedly.']     What  is  it,  sir? 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Look  for  your  cigars  yourself.  Honor, 
go  back  to  your  reading  and  your  sewing,  or  whatever  you 
were  fiddling  at,  and  fiddle  in  peace. 

MR.  VOYSEY  departs,  leaving  the  room  rather  hushed, 
MR.  BOOTH  has  not  waited  for  this  parental  display. 
Then  alice  insinuates  a  remark  very  softly. 

ALICE.     Have  you  looked  in  the  Library  ? 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  [Relapsing  to  an  injured  mutter,"] 
Where's  Emily? 

HONOR.   Upstairs  with  little  Henry ;  he  woke  up  and  cried. 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  Letting  her  wear  herself  to  rags 
over  the  child  .  .    ! 

HONOR.    Well,  she  won't  let  me  go. 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  Why  don't  you  stop  looking  for 
those  cigars? 

HONOR.  H  you  don't  mind,  I  want  a  reel  of  blue  silk 
now  I'm  here. 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  I  darcsay  they  are  in  the  Library. 
What  a  house! 

He  departs. 

HONOR.     Booth  is  so  trying. 

ALICE.     Honor,  why  do  you  put  up  with  it? 

HONOR.     Someone  has  to. 

ALICE.    [Discreetly  nibbling  a  nut  which  edward  Jias 


32         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  n 

cracked  for  her.']    I'm  afraid  I  think  Master  Major  Booth 
ought  to  have  been  taken  in  hand  early  .  .  with  a  cane. 

HONOR.  {^As  she  vaguely  burrows  into  corners.]  Papa 
did.  But  it's  never  prevented  him  booming  at  us  .  .  oh, 
ever  since  he  was  a  baby.  Now  he's  flustered  me  so  I 
simply  can't  think  where  this  blue  silk  is. 

ALICE.  All  the  Pettifers  desired  to  be  remembered  to 
you,  Edward. 

HONOR.  I  must  do  without  it.  [^But  she  goes  on  look- 
ing.] I  think,  Alice,  that  we're  a  very  difficult  family  .  . 
except  perhaps  Edward. 

EDWARD.     Why  except  me? 

HONOR.  [Who  has  only  excepted  out  of  politeness  to 
present  company.]  Well,  you  may  be  difficult  .  .  to  your- 
self. [Then  she  starts  to  go,  threading  her  way  through 
the  disarranged  chairs.]  Mr.  Colpus  will  shout  so  loud  at 
Mother,  and  she  hates  people  to  think  she's  so  very  deaf. 
I  thought  Mary  Petti fer  looking  old  .  .  [And  she  talks 
herself  out  of  the  room.] 

ALICE.     [After  her.]     She's  getting  old. 

Now  ALICE  does  sit  down;  as  if  she'd  he  glad  of  her 
tete-a-tete. 

ALICE.  I  was  glad  not  to  spend  August  abroad  for  once. 
We  drove  into  Cheltenham  to  a  dance  .  .  carpet.  I  golfed 
a  lot. 

EDWARD.    How  long  wcrc  you  with  them  ? 

ALICE.  Not  a  fortnight.  It  doesn't  seem  three  months 
since  I  was  here,  does  it? 

EDWARD.     I'm  down  so  very  little. 

ALICE.     I'm  here  a  disgraceful  deal. 

EDWARD.     You  know  they're  always  pleased. 

ALICE.  Well,  being  a  homeless  person!  But  what  a 
cart-load  to  descend  all  at  once  .  .  yesterday  and  to-day. 
The  Major  and  Emily  .  .  Emily's  not  at  all  well.  Hugh 
and  Mrs.  Hugh.    And  me.    Are  you  staying  ? 


ACT  II]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         33 

EDWARD.     No.    I  must  get  a  word  with  my  father  .  . 

ALICE.  A  business  life  is  not  healthy  for  you,  Edward. 
You  look  more  like  half-baked  pie-crust  than  usual. 

EDWARD.     \_A  little  enviously.']    You're  very  well. 

ALICE.     I'm  always  well,  and  nearly  always  happy. 

MAJOR  BOOTH  retums.     He  has  the  right  sort  of 
cigar  in  his  mouth,  and  is  considerably  mollified. 

ALICE.     You  found  them? 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  Of  coursc,  they  were  there. 
Thank  you  very  much,  Alice.    Now  I  want  a  knife. 

ALICE,     I  must  present  you  with  a  cigar-cutter.  Booth. 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  I  hate  'em.  \_He  eyes  the  des- 
sert disparagingly.']     Nothing  but  silver  ones. 

EDWARD  hands  him  a  carefully  opened  pocket  knife. 
Thank  you,  Edward.  And  I  must  take  one  of  the  candles. 
Something's  gone  wrong  with  the  library  ventilator  and 
you  never  can  see  a  thing  in  that  room. 

ALICE.     Is  Mrs.  Hugh  there? 

MAJOR  BOOTH  VOYSEY.  Writing  letters.  Things  are 
neglected,  Edward,  unless  one  is  constantly  on  the  look 
out.  The  Pater  only  cares  for  his  garden.  I  must  speak 
seriously  to  Honor. 

He  has  returned  the  knife,  still  open,  and  now  hav- 
ing lit  his  cigar  at  the  candle  he  carries  this  off. 

ALICE.    Honor  has  the  patience  of  a  ..  of  an  old  maid. 

EDWARD.  Her  mission  in  life  isn't  a  pleasant  one.  [He 
gives  her  a  nut,  about  the  fifteenth.]    Here ;  'scuse  fingers. 

ALICE.  Thank  you.  [Looking  at  him,  with  her  head  on 
one  side  and  her  face  more  humorous  than  ever.]  Edward, 
why  have  you  given  up  proposing  to  me  ? 

He  starts.  Hushes;  then  won't  be  outdone  in  humour. 

EDWARD.     One  can't  go  on  proposing  for  ever. 

ALICE.  [Reasonably.]  Why  not?  Have  you  seen  any- 
one you  like  better? 

EDWARD,    No. 


34         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  ji 

ALICE.    Well  .  .  I  miss  it. 

EDWARD.  What  satisfaction  did  you  find  in  refusing  me  ? 

ALICE.  [As  she  weighs  the  matter.']  I  find  satisfaction 
in  feeling  that  I'm  wanted. 

EDWARD.  Without  any  intention  of  giving  yourself  .  . 
throwing  yourself  away. 

ALICE.  [Teasing  his  sudden  earnestness.']  Ah,  now  you 
come  from  mere  vanity  to  serious  questions. 

EDWARD.    Mine  were  always  serious  questions  to  you. 

(ALICE.    That's  a  fault  I  find  in  you,  Edward;  all  ques- 
tions are  serious  to  you.    I  call  you  a  perfect  little  pocket- 
g^ide  to  life  .  .  all  questions  and  answers;  what  to  eat, 
drink  and  avoid,  what  to  believe  and  what  to  say  .  .  all 
In  the  same  type,  the  same  importance  attached  to  each. 
EDWARD.    [Sententiously.]    Well  .  .  everything  matters. 
ALICE.     [Making  a  face.]     D'you  plan  out  every  detail 
of  your  life  .  .  every  step  you  take  .  .  every  mouthful? 
EDWARD.    That  would  be  waste  of  thought.     One  must 
lay  down  principles. 

ALICE.     I  prefer  my  plan,  I  always  do  what  I  know  I 
want  to  do.    Crack  me  another  nut. 
EDWARD.     Haven't  you  had  enough? 
ALICE.     I  k  n  o  w  I  want  one  more. 

He  cracks  another,  with  a  sigh  which  sounds  ridic- 
ulous in  that  connection. 
EDWARD.    Well,  if  you've  never  had  to  decide  anything 
very  serious  .  . 

ALICE.     [With  great  gravity.]     Everything's  serious. 
EDWARD.     Everything  isn't  vital. 

ALICE.  [Skilfully  manoeuvring  the  subject.]  I've  an- 
swered vital  questions.  I  knew  that  I  didn't  want  to 
marry  you  .  .  each  time. 

EDWARD.     Oh,  then  you  didn't  just  make  a  rule  of  say- 
.    ing  no. 

ALICE.    As  you  proposed  .  .  on  principle?.    No,  I  al- 


ACT  ii]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         35 

ways  gave  you  a  fair  chance.     FIl  give  you  one  now  if 
you  like. 

He  rouses  himself  to  play  up  to  this  outrageous 
piece  of  flirting. 
EDWARD.     I'm  not  to  be  caught. 

ALICE.    Edward,  how  rude  you  are.     IShe  eats  her  nut 
contentedly.'] 
EDWARD.     Do  other  men  propose  to  you? 
ALICE.     Such  a  thing  may  have  happened  .  .  when  I 
was  young.     Perhaps  it  might  even  now  if  I  were  to 
allow  it. 

EDWARD.    You  encourage  me  shamelessly. 
ALICE.     It   isn't   everyone   who   proposes   on   principle. 
As  a  rule  a  man  does  it  because  he  can't  help  himself. 
And  then  to  be  said  no  to  .  .  hurts. 

They  are  interrupted  by  the  sudden  appearance  of 

MRS.   HUGH  VOYSEY^  o  brisk,  bright  little  woman, 

in  an  evening  gown,  which  she  has  bullied  a  cheap 

dressmaker  into   making   look   exceedingly  smart. 

BEATRICE  is  05  hard  as  nails  and  as  clever  as  paint. 

But  if  she  keeps  her  feelings  buried  pretty  deep  it 

is  because  they  are  precious  to  her;  and  if  she  is  im- 

patient  with  fools  it  is  because  her  own  brains  have 

had  to  win  her  everything  in  the  world,  so  perhaps 

she  does  overvalue  them  a  little.    She  speaks  always 

with  great  decision  and  little  effort. 

BEATRICE.     I  believe  I  could  write  important  business 

letters  upon  an  island  in  the  middle  of  Fleet  Street.     But 

while  Booth  is  poking  at  a  ventilator  with  a  billiard  cue 

.  .  no,  I  can't. 

She  goes  to  the  fireplace,  waving  her  half  finished 
letter. 
ALICE.    [Soothingly.']    Didn't  you  expect  Hugh  back  to 
dinner  ? 


36        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  n 

BEATRICE.    Not  Specially  .  .  He  went  to  rout  out  some 
things  from  his  studio.    He'll  come  back  in  a  filthy  mess. 
ALICE.     Now  if  you  listen  .  .  Booth  doesn't  enjoy  mak- 
ing a  fuss  by  himself  .  .  you'll  hear  him  rout  out  Honor. 
They  listen.    But  what  happens  is  that  booth  ap- 
pears at  the  door,  billiard  cue  in  hand,  and  says 
solemnly  .  . 
MAJOR  BOOTH  voYSEY.     Edward,  I  wish  you'd  come  and 
have  a  look  at  this  ventilator,  like  a  good  fellow. 

Then  he  turns  and  goes  again,  obviously  with  the 
weight  of  an  important  matter  on  his  shoulders. 
With  the  ghost  of  a  smile  edward  gets  up  and 
follows  him. 
ALICE.     If  I  belonged  to  this  family  I  should  hate  Booth. 
With  which  comment  she  joins  Beatrice  at  the 
fireplace. 
BEATRICE.    A  good  day's  shopping? 
ALICE.    'M.     The  baby  bride  and  I  bought  clothes  all 
the  morning.    Then  we  had  lunch  with  Denis  and  bought 
furniture. 
BEATRICE.    Nice  f umiturc  ? 

ALICE.  It'll  be  very  good  and  very  new.  They  neither 
of  them  know  what  they  want.  [Then  suddenly  throwing 
up  her  chin  and  exclaiming.']  When  it's  a  question  of 
money  I  can  understand  it  .  .  but  if  one  can  provide  for 
<!toneself  or  is  independent  why  get  married !  Especially 
having  been  brought  up  on  the  sheltered  life  principle  .  . 
one  may  as  well  make  the  most  of  its  advantages  .  .  one 
doesn*t  go  falling  in  love  all  over  the  place  as  men  seem 
^  to  .  .  most  of  them.  Of  course  with  Ethel  and  Denis  it's 
different.  They've  both  been  caught  young.  They're  two 
little  birds  building  their  nests  and  it's  all  ideal.  They'll 
soon  forget  they've  ever  been  apart. 

Now  HONOR  flutters  into  the  room,  patient  but  wild 
eyed. 


ACT  ii]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE        57 

HONOR.  Mother  wants  last  week's  Notes  and  Queries. 
Have  you  seen  it? 

BEATRICE.     [Exasperated  at  the  interruption.']     No. 

HONOR.  It  ought  not  to  be  in  here.  \^So  she  proceeds 
to  look  for  it.]  She's  having  a  long  argument  with  Mr. 
Colpus  over  Oliver  Cromwell's  relations. 

ALICE.  l^Her  eyes  twinkling.']  I  thought  Auntie  didn't 
approve  of  Oliver  Cromwell. 

HONOR.  She  doesn't  and  she's  trying  to  prove  that  he 
was  a  brewer  or  something.  I  suppose  someone  has  taken 
it  away. 

So  she  gives  up  the  search  and  flutters  out  again. 

ALICE.     This  is  a  most  unrestful  house. 

REATRICE.  I  once  thought  of  putting  the  Voyseys 
into  a  book  of  mine.  Then  I  concluded  they'd  be  as  dull 
there  as  they  are  anywhere  else. 

ALICE.    They're  not  duller  than  most  other  people. 

BEATRICE.     But  how  vcry  dull  that  is ! 

ALICE.  They're  a  little  noisier  and  perhaps  not  quite 
so  well  mannered.    But  I  love  them. 

BEATRICE.  I  don't.  I  should  have  thought  Love  was 
just  what  they  couldn't  inspire, 

ALICE.    Of  course,  Hugh  is  unlike  any  of  the  others. 

BEATRICE.  He  has  most  of  their  bad  points.  I  don't 
love  Hugh. 

ALICE.  \Her  eyebrows  up,  though  she  smiles.]  Beatrice, 
you  shouldn't  say  so. 

BEATRICE.  It  sounds  affcctcd,  doesn't  it?  Never  mind; 
when  he  dies  I'll  wear  mourning  .  .  but  not  weeds;  I 
bargained  against  that  when  we  were  engaged. 

ALICE.  [Her  face  growing  a  little  thoughtful.]  Beatrice, 
I'm  going  to  ask  questions.  You  were  in  love  with  Hugh 
when  you  married  him? 

BEATRICE.     Well  .  .  I  married  him  for  his  money. 

ALICE.    He  hadn't  much. 


38        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  n 

BEATRICE.  I  had  none  .  .  and  I  wanted  to  write  books. 
Yes,  I  loved  him. 

ALICE.     And  you  thought  you'd  be  happy  ? 

BEATRICE.  [Considering  carefully.']  No,  I  didn't.  I 
hoped  he'd  be  happy. 

ALICE.  [A  little  ironical]  Did  you  think  your  writing 
books  would  make  him  so? 

BEATRICE.  My  dear  Alice,  wouldn't  you  feel  it  a  very 
degrading  thing  to  have  your  happiness  depend  upon  some- 
body else? 

ALICE.  [After  pausing  to  Und  her  phrase.]  There's  a 
joy  of  service. 

BEATRICE.  [Ironical  herself  now.]  I  forgot  .  .  you've 
four  hundred  a  year? 

ALICE.     What  has  that  to  do  with  it? 

BEATRICE.  [Putting  her  case  very  precisely.]  I've  had 
to  earn  my  own  living,  consequently  there  isn't  one  thing 
in  my  life  that  I  have  ever  done  quite  genuinely  for  its 
own  sake  .  .  but  always  with  an  eye  towards  bread-and- 
butter,  pandering  to  the  people  who  were  to  give  me  that. 
Happiness  has  been  my  only  independence. 

The  conservatory  door  opens,  and  through  it  come 
MR.  VOYSEY  and  MR.  BOOTH,  in  the  midst  of  a  discus- 
sion. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Very  well,  man,  stick  to  the  shares  and 
risk  it. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  No,  of  coursc,  if  you  seriously  ad- 
vise me 

MR.  VOYSEY.  I  never  advise  greedy  children.  I  let  'em 
overeat  'emselves,  and  take  the  consequences 

ALICE.  [Shaking  a  finger.]  Uncle  Trench,  you've  been 
in  the  garden  without  a  hat,  after  playing  billiards  in  that 
hot  room. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  We  had  to  give  up  .  .  ipy  wrist 
was  bad.    They've  started  pool. 


ACT  ii]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         39 

BEATRICE.     Is  Booth  goiiig  to  play  ? 

MR.  VOYSEY.  We  left  him  instructing  Ethel  how  to  hold 
a  cue. 

BEATRICE.    Perhaps  I  can  finish  my  letter. 

Off  she  goes,  alice  is  idly  following  with  a  little 
paper  her  hand  has  fallen  on  behind  the  clock. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Don't  run  away,  my  dear. 

ALICE.  I'm  taking  this  to  Auntie  .  .  Notes  and  Queries 
.  .  she  v;^ants  it. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  Damn  .  .  this  gravel's  stuck  to  my 
shoe. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     That's  a  new  made  path. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  Now  don't  you  think  it's  too  early 
to  have  put  in  those  plants? 

MR.  VOYSEY.     No.    We're  getting  frost  at  night  already. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  I  should  havc  kept  that  bed  a  good 
ten  feet  further  from  the  tree. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Nonsense.  The  tree's  to  the  north  of  it. 
This  room's  cold.  Why  don't  they  keep  the  fire  up !  {He 
proceeds  to  put  coals  on  i/.] 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  You  werc  too  hot  in  that  billiard 
room.    You  know,  Voysey  .  .  about  those  Alguazils  ? 

MR.  VOYSEY.   [Through  the  rattling  of  the  coals.']  What? 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  [Trying  to  pierce  the  din.]  Those 
Alguazils. 

MR.  VOYSEY,  with  Surprising  inconsequence,  points  a 
finger  at  the  silk  handkerchief  across  mr.  booth's 
shirt  front. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  What  d'you  put  your  handkerchief  there 
for? 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  Mcasurc  of  prccau —  [At  that 
moment  he  sneeses.']  Damn  it  .  .  if  you've  given  me  a 
chill  dragging  me  round  your  infernal  garden 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [Slapping  him  on  the  back.]  You're  an 
old  crook. 


40        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  n 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     Well,  I'll  be  glad  of  this  winter  in 
Egypt.     [He  returns  to  his  subject.']     And  if  you  think 
seriously  that  I  ought  to  sell  out  of  the  Alguazils  before  I 
go  .  .   ?     [He  looks  with  childlike  enquiry  at  his  friend, 
who  is  apparently  yawning  slightly.]    Why  can*t  you  take 
them  in  charge?  .  .  and  Fll  give  you  a  power  of  attorney 
or  whatever  it  is  .  .  and  you  can  sell  out  if  things  look  bad. 
At  this  moment  phcebe,  the  middle  aged  parlour- 
maid, comes  in,  tray  in  hand.    Like  an  expert  fish- 
erman, MR.  VOYSEY  once  more  lets  loose  the  thread 
of  the  conversation. 
MR.  VOYSEY.     D'you  waut  to  clear? 
PHCEBE.     It  doesn't  matter,  sir. 
MR.  VOYSEY.     No,  go  ou  .  .  go  on. 

So  MARY,  the  young  housemaid,  comes  in  as  well, 
and  the  two  start  to  clear  the  table.  All  of  which 
fidgets  poor  mr.  booth  considerably.  He  sits  shriv- 
elled up  in  his  armchair  by  the  fire;  and  now  MR. 
VOYSEY  (ittends  to  him. 
MR.  VOYSEY.  What  d'you  want  with  high  interest  at  all 
.  .  you  never  spend  half  your  income? 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  I  like  to  feel  that  my  money  is  do- 
ing some  good  in  the  world.  These  mines  are  very  useful 
things,  and  forty-two  per  cent,  is  pleasing. 
MR.  VOYSEY.  You're  an  old  gambler. 
MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  [Propitiatingly.]  Ah,  but  then  I've 
you  to  advise  me.  I  always  do  as  you  tell  me  in  the  end, 
now  you  can't  deny  that. 

MR.  VOYSEY.    The  man  who  don't  know  must  trust  in  the 
man  who  does!     [He  yawns  again.] 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     [Modcstly  insisting.]     There's  five 
thousand  in  Alguazils — ^what  else  could  we  put  it  into? 
MR.  VOYSEY.     I  can  get  you  something  at  four  and  a  half. 
MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     Oh,  Lord  .  .  that's  nothing. 
MR.  VOYSEY.     [With  a  sudden  serious  friendliness.]     I 


ACT  n]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         41 

wish,  my  dear  George,  you'd  invest  more  on  your  own 
account  You  know — what  with  one  thing  and  the  other — 
IVe  got  control  of  practically  all  you  have  in  the  world.  I 
might  be  playing  old  Harry  with  it  for  all  you  know. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  {OverHowifig  with  conMence.']  My 
dear  feller  .  .  if  Fm  satisfied!  Ah,  my  friend,  what'U 
happen  to  your  firm  when  you  depart  this  life!  .  .  not  be- 
fore my  time,  I  hope,  though. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     [With  a  little  frown.']     What  d*ye  mean? 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     Edward's  no  use. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  I  beg  your  pardon  .  .  very  sound  in  busi- 
ness. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     May  be  .  .  but  I  tell  you  he's  no 
use.    Too  many  principles,  as  I  said  just  now.    Men  have  ■ 
cQiifid€ac£iii,a4tersoiialky7Tirrt'1n^-^  Where  would 

you  be  without  the  confidence  of  your  clients? 

MR.  VOYSEY.     [Candidly. 1    True! 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.    He'll  ucvcr  gain  that. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     I  fear  you  dislike  Edward. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  [With  pUasaut  franknessJ]  Yes, 
I  do. 

MR.  VOYSEY.    That's  a  pity. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  \With  fl  Haltering  smile.']  Well, 
he's  not  his  father  and  never  will  be.    What's  the  time? 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [With  inappropriate  thoughtfulness.] 
Twenty  to  ten. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.    I  must  be  trotting. 

MR.  VOYSEY.    It's  Very  early. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  Oh,  and  I've  not  said  a  word  to 
Mrs.  Voysey  .  . 

As  he  goes  to  the  door  he  meets  edward,  who  comes 
in  apparently  looking  for  his  father;  at  any  rate 
catches  his  eye  immediately,  while  mr.  booth  ob' 
liviously  continues. 


1 


4S        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  n' 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     Will  you  stroll  found  home  with 
me? 

MR.  VOYSEY.    I  can't. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     [Mildly  surpviscd  at  the  short  re- 
ply.'\    Well,  good  night.    Good  night,  Edward. 
He  trots  away. 
MR.  VOYSEY.    Leave  the  rest  of  the  table,  Phoebe. 
PHOEBE.    Yes,  sir. 
MR.  VOYSEY.    You  can  come  back  in  ten  minutes. 

PHOEBE  and  MARY  depart  and  the  door  is  closed. 
Alone  with  his  son  mr.  voysey  does  not  move;  his 
face  grows  a  little  keener,  that's  all. 
MR.  VOYSEY.    Well,  Edward? 

EDWARD  starts  to  move  restlessly  about,  like  a  cowed 
animal  in  a  cage;  silently  for  a  moment  or  two. 
Then  when  he  speaks,  his  voice  is  toneless  and  he 
doesn't  look  at  his  father. 
EDWARD.     I  should  like  you  now,  sir,  if  you  don't  mind, 
to  drop  with  me  all  these  protestations  about  putting  the 
firm's  affairs  straight,  and  all  your  anxieties  and  sacrifices 
to  that  end.    I  see  now,  of  course  .  .  what  a  cleverer  man 
than  I  could  have  seen  yesterday  .  .  that  for  some  time, 
ever  since,  I  suppose,  you  recovered  from  the  first  shock 
and  got  used  to  the  double  dealing,  this  hasn't  been  your 
object  at  all.    You've  used  your  clients'  capital  to  produce 
your  own  income  .  .  to  bring  us  up  and  endow  us  with. 
Booth's  ten  thousand  pounds;  what  you  are  giving  Ethel 
on  her  marriage  .  .  It's  odd  it  never  struck  me  yesterday 
that  my  own  pocket  money  as  a  boy  was  probably  with- 
drawn from  some  client's  account.    You've  been  very  gen- 
erous to  us  all.  Father.     I  suppose  about  half  the  sum 
you've  spent  on  us  would  have  put  things  right. 
MR.  VOYSEY.     No,  it  would  not. 

EDWARD.     [Appealing  for  the  truth.']     Oh  .  .  at  some 
time  or  other! 


ACT  ii]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         43 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Well,  if  there  have  been  good  times  there 
have  been  bad  times.  At  present  the  three  hundred  a 
year  I'm  to  allow  your  sister  is  going  to  be  rather  a  pull. 

EDWARD.  Three  hundred  a  year  .  .  and  yet  you've 
never  attempted  to  put  a  single  account  straight.  Since 
it  isn't  lunacy,  sir  .  .  I  can  only  conclude  that  you  enjoy 
being  in  this  position. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  I  have  put  accounts  absolutely  straight  .  . 
at  the  winding  up  of  a  trust  for  instance  .  .  at  great 
inconvenience  too.  And  to  all  appearances  they've  been 
above  suspicion.  What's  the  object  of  all  this  rodomon- 
tade, Edward? 

EDWARD.  If  I'm  to  remain  in  the  firm,  it  had  better  be 
with  a  very  clear  understanding  of  things  as  they  arc. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [^Firmly,  not  too  anxiously.']  Then  you 
do  remain? 

EDWARD,    [//i  a  very  low  voice.']    Yes,  I  remain. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  l^Quite  gravely.]  That's  wise  of  you  .  . 
I'm  very  glad.  \^And  he  is  silent  for  a  moment.]  And  now 
we  needn't  discuss  the  impractical  side  of  it  any  more. 

EDWARD.  But  I  want  to  make  one  condition.  And  I 
want  some  information. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [His  sudden  cheerfulness  relapsing  again.] 
Well? 

EDWARD.  Of  course  no  one  has  ever  discovered  .  .  and 
no  one  suspects  this  state  of  things? 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Peacey  knows. 

EDWARD.     Peacey ! 

MR.  VOYSEY.    His  father  found  out. 

EDWARD.     Oh.     Does  he  draw  hush  money? 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [Curling  a  little  at  the  word.]  It  is  my 
custom  to  make  a  little  present  every  Christmas.  Not  a 
cheque  .  .  notes  in  an  envelope.  \_He  becomes  benevolent.] 
I  don't  grude  the  money  .  .  Peacey's  a  devoted  fellow. 

EDWARD.    Naturally  this  v/ould  be  a  heavily  taxed  in- 


44         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  n 

dustry.  [Then  he  smiles  at  his  vision  of  the  mild  old 
clerk.]  Peacey !  There's  another  thing  I  want  to  ask,  sir. 
Have  you  ever  under  stress  of  circumstances  done  worse 
than  just  make  use  of  a  client's  capital?  You  boasted  to 
me  yesterday  that  no  one  had  ever  suffered  in  pocket  be- 
cause of  you.     Is  that  absolutely  true? 

MR.  VOYSEY  draws  himself  up,  dignified  and  mag- 
niloquent. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  My  dear  Edward,  for  the  future  my  mind 
is  open  to  you,  you  can  discover  for  yourself  how  matters 
stand  to-day.  But  I  decline  to  gratify  your  curiosity  as 
to  what  is  over  and  done  with. 

EDWARD.  [With  entire  comprehension.']  Thank  you, 
sir.  The  condition  I  wish  to  make  is  that  we  should 
really  do  what  we  have  pretended  to  be  doing  .  .  try  and 
put  fhe  accounts  straight. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [With  a  little  polite  shrug.]  I've  no  doubt 
you'll  prove  an  abler  man  of  business  than  I. 

EDWARD.     One  by  one. 

MR.  VOYSEY.    Which  one  will  you  begin  with? 

EDWARD.  I  shall  begin,  Father,  by  halving  the  salary 
I  draw  from  the  firm. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     I  see  .  .  Retrenchment  and  Reform. 

EDWARD.  And  I  think  you  cannot  give  Ethel  this  five 
thousand  pounds  dowry. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [Shortly,  with  one  of  the  quick  twists  of 
his  eye.]    I  have  given  my  word  to  Denis. 

EDWARD.     The  money  isn't  yours  to  give. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [In  an  indignant  crescendo.]  I  should 
not  dream  of  depriving  Ethel  of  what,  as  my  daughter, 
she  has  every  right  to  expect.  I  am  surprised  at  your 
suggesting  such  a  thing. 

EDWARD.     [Pale  and  firm.]    I'm  set  on  this,  Father. 

MR.  VOYSEY.    Don't  be  such  a  fool,  Edward.      What 


ACT  n]      THE,  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         45 

would  it  look  like  .  .  suddenly  to  refuse  without  rhyme  or 
reason?    What  would  old  Tregoning  think? 

EDWARD.     [Distressed.]    You  could  give  them  a  reason. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Perhaps  you'll  invent  one. 

EDWARD.    If  need  be,  Ethel  should  be  told  the  truth. 

MR.  VOYSEY.    What! 

EDWARD.    I  know  it  would  hurt  her. 

MR.  VOYSEY.    And  Denis  told  too,  I  suppose? 

EDWARD.  Father,  it  is  my  duty  to  do  whatever  is  neces- 
sary to  prevent  this. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  It'll  be  necessary  to  tell  the  nearest  police- 
man. It  is  my  duty  to  pay  no  more  attention  to  these 
scruples  of  yours  than  a  nurse  pays  to  her  child's  tan- 
trums. Understand,  Edward,  I  don't  want  to  force  you  to 
continue  my  partner.  Come  with  me  gladly^ or  don't 
come  at  all. 

EDWARD.  {Dully.']  It  is  my  duty  to  be  of  what  use  I 
can  to  you,  sir.    Father,  I  want  to  save  you  if  I  can. 

He  flashes  into  this  exclamation  of  almost  broken- 
hearted affection.  MR.  voysey  looks  at  his  son  for  a 
moment  and  his  lip  quivers.    Then  he  steels  himself. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Thank  you !  I  have  saved  myself  quite 
satisfactorily  for  the  last  thirty  years,  and  you  must  please 
believe  that  by  this  time  I  know  my  own  business  best. 

EDWARD.  [Hopelessly.]  Let  the  money  come  some  other 
way.    How  is  your  own  income  regulated? 

MR.  VOYSEY.  I  have  a  bank  balance  and  a  cheque  book, 
haven't  I?  I  spend  what  I  think  well  to  spend.  What's 
the  use  of  earmarking  this  or  that  as  my  own?  You  say 
none  of  it  is  my  own.  I  might  say  it's  all  my  own.  I  think 
I've  earned  it. 

EDWARD.  [Anger  coming  on  him.]  That's  what  I  can't 
forgive.  If  you'd  lived  poor  .  .  if  you'd  really  devoted 
your  skill  to  your  clients'  good  and  not  to  your  aggrandise- 
ment .  .  then,  even  though  things  were  only  as  they  are 


46         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  ii 

now,  I  could  have  been  proud  of  you.  But,  Father,  own 
the  truth  to  me,  at  least  .  .  that's  my  due  from  you,  con- 
sidering how  I'm  placed  by  all  you've  done.  Didn't  you 
simply  seize  this  opportunity  as  a  means  to  your  own  end, 
to  your  own  enriching? 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [With  a  sledge  hammer  irony.']  Certainly. 
I  sat  that  morning  in  my  father's  office,  studying  the  hel- 
met of  the  policeman  in  the  street  below,  and  thinking 
what  a  glorious  path  I  had  happened  on  to  wealth  and  hon- 
our and  renown.  [Then  he  begins  to  bully  edward  in  the 
kindliest  way."]  My  dear  boy,  you  evidently  haven't  begun 
to  grasp  the  A  B  C  of  my  position.  What  has  carried  me 
to  victory?  The  confidence  of  my  clients.  What  has 
earned  that  confidence?  A  decent  life,  my  integrity,  my 
brains?  No,  my  reputation  for  wealth  .  .  that,  and  noth- 
ing else.  Business  now-a-days  is  run  on  the  lines  of  the 
confidence  trick.  What  makes  old  George  Booth  so  glad 
to  trust  me  with  every  penny  he  possesses  ?  Not  affection 
.  .  he's  never  cared  for  anything  in  his  life  but  his  collec- 
tion of  prints.  No ;  he  imagines  that  I  have  as  big  a  stake 
in  the  country,  as  he  calls  it,  as  he  has,  and  he's  perfectly 
happy. 

EDWARD.     [Stupe fied,  helpless.]     So  he's  involved! 

MR.  VOYSEY,  Of  course  he's  involved,  and  he's  always 
after  high  interest,  too  .  .  it's  Httle  one  makes  out  of  him. 
But  there's  a  further  question  here,  Edward.  Should  I 
have  had  confidence  in  myself  if  I'd  remained  a  poor  man? 
No,  I  should  not.  You  must  either  be  the  master  of  money 
or  its  servant.  And  if  one  is  not  opulent  in  one's  daily  life 
one  loses  that  wonderful  .  .  financier's  touch.  One  must 
be  confident  oneself  .  .  and  I  saw  from  the  first  that  I 
must  inspire  confidence.  My  whole  public  and  private  life 
has  tended  to  that.  All  my  surroundings  .  .  you  and  your 
brothers  and  sisters  that  I  have  brought  into,  and  up,  and 


ACT  n]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         47 

put  out  in  the  world  so  worthily  .  .  you  in  your  turn  in- 
spire confidence. 

EDWARD.  Not  our  worth,  not  our  abilities,  nor  our 
virtues,  but  the  fact  that  we  travel  first  class  and  ride  in 
hansoms. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [Impatiently.']  Well,  I  haven't  organised 
Society  upon  a  basis  of  wealth. 

EDWARD.  Is  every  single  person  who  trusts  you  involved 
in  your  system? 

MR.  VOYSEY.  What  new  hole  are  you  finding  to  pick  in 
my  conduct? 

EDWARD.  My  mind  travelled  naturally  from  George 
Booth,  with  his  big  income,  to  old  Nursie,  with  her  savings 
which  she  brought  you  to  invest.  You've  let  those  be,  at 
least. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  I  never  troubled  to  invest  them  .  .  it 
wasn't  worth  while. 

EDWARD.     Father ! 

MR.  VOYSEY.  D'you  know  what  she  brought  me  ?  .  .  five 
hundred  pounds. 

EDWARD.    That's  damnable. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Indeed.    I  give  her  seventy-five  pounds  a 

year  for  it.  Would  you  like  to  take  charge  of  that  account, 

Edward?    I'll  give  you  five  hundred  to  invest  to-morrow. 

EDWARD,  hopelessly  beaten,  falls  into  an  almost  comic 

state  of  despair, 

EDWARD.  My  dear  Father,  putting  every  moral  question 
aside  .  .  it's  all  very  well  your  playing  Robin  Hood  in  this 
magnificent  manner;  but  have  you  given  a  moment's 
thought  to  the  sort  of  inheritance  you'll  be  leaving  me  ? 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [Pleased  for  the  first  time.']  Ah !  That  is 
a  question  you  have  every  right  to  ask. 

EDWARD.  If  you  died  to-morrow,  could  we  pay  eight 
shillings  in  the  pound  .  .  or  seventeen  .  .  or  five?  Do 
you  know? 


48         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  n 

MR.  VOYSEY.  And  my  answer  is,  that  by  your  help  I 
have  every  intention,  v^^hen  I  die,  of  leaving  a  will  behind 
me  of  property  to  you  all  running  into  six  figures.  D'you 
think  I've  given  my  life  and  my  talents  to  this  money 
making  for  a  less  result  than  that?  I'm  fond  of  you  all  .  . 
and  I  want  you  to  be  proud  of  me  . .  and  I  mean  that  the 
name  of  Voysey  shall  be  carried  high  in  the  world  by  my 
children  and  grandchildren.  Don't  you  be  afraid,  Edward. 
Ah,  you  lack  experience,  my  boy  .  .  you're  not  full  grown 
yet  .  .  your  impulses  are  a  bit  chaotic.  You  emotionalise 
over  your  work,  and  you  reason  about  your  emotions.  You 
must  sort  yourself.  You  must  realise  that  money  making 
is  one  thing,  and  religion  another,  and  family-life  a  third 
.  .  and  that  if  we  apply  our  energies  whole-heartedly  to 
each  of  these  in  turn,  and  realise  that  different  laws  gov- 
ern each,  that  there  is  a  different  end  to  be  served,  a  differ- 
ent ideal  to  be  striven  for  in  each 

His  coherence  is  saved  by  the  sudden  appearance  of 
his  wife,  who  comes  round  the  door,  smiling  be- 
nignly. Not  in  the  least  put  out,  in  fact,  a  little 
relieved,  he  greets  her  with  an  affectionate  shout, 
for  she  is  very  deaf, 

MR.  VOYSEY.    Hullo,  Mother! 

MRS.  VOYSEY.  Oh,  there  you  are,  Trench.  I've  been 
deserted. 

MR.  VOYSEY.    George  Booth  gone? 

MRS.  VOYSEY.  Atc  you  talking  business?  Perhaps  you 
don't  want  me. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     No,  no  .  .  no  business. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.  \Who  has  not  looked  for  his  answer.']  I 
suppose  the  others  are  in  the  billiard  room. 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [Vociferously.']  We're  not  talking  busi- 
ness, old  lady. 

EDWARD.    I'll  be  off,  sir. 


ACT  II]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         49 

MR.  VOYSEY.  IGenial  as  usual.'\  Why  don't  you  stay? 
I'll  come  up  with  you  in  the  morning. 

EDWARD.     No,  thank  you,  sir. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Then  I  shall  be  up  about  noon  to-morrow. 

EDWARD.     Good-night,  Mother. 

MRS.  VOYSEY  places  a  plump,  kindly  hand  on  his  arm 
and  looks  up  affectionately, 

MRS.  VOYSEY.     You  look  tired. 

EDWARD.     No,  I'm  not. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.     What  did  you  say? 

EDWARD,  [Too  weary  to  repeat  himself. ']  Nothing, 
Mother  dear. 

He  kisses  her  cheek,  while  she  kisses  the  air. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Good-night,  my  boy. 

Then  he  goes.  mrs.  voysey  is  carrying  her  Notes 
and  Queries.  This  is  a  dear  old  lady,  looking  older, 
too,  than  probably  she  is.  Placid  describes  her.  She 
has  had  a  life  of  little  joys  and  cares,  has  never 
measured  herself  against  the  world,  never  even  ques- 
tioned the  shape  and  size  of  the  little  corner  of  it  in 
which  she  lives.  She  has  loved  an  indulgent  hus- 
band, and  borne  eight  children,  six  of  them  surviv- 
ing, healthy.    That  is  her  history. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.  George  Booth  went  some  time  ago.  He 
said  he  thought  you'd  taken  a  chill  walking  round  the 
garden. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     I'm  all  right. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.     D'you  think  you  have? 

MR.  VOYSEY.     [/w  her  ear.'\    No. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.  You  should  be  careful,  Trench.  What 
did  you  put  on  ? 

MR.  VOYSEY.     Nothing. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.  How  vcry  foolish!  Let  me  feel  your 
hand.    You  are  quite  feverish. 


50         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  n 

MR.  VOYSEY.  [Aifectionately.']  You're  a  fuss-box,  old 
lady. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.  [CoquctHng  with  him."]  Don't  be  rude. 
Trench. 

HONOR  descends  upon  them.  She  is  well  into  that 
nightly  turmoil  of  putting  everything  and  every- 
body to  rights  which  always  precedes  her  bed-time. 
She  carries  a  shawl  which  she  clasps  round  her 
mothe/s  shoulders,  her  mind  and  gaze  already  on 
the  next  thing  to  be  done. 
HONOR.  Mother,  you  left  your  shawl  in  the  drawing- 
room.     Can  they  finish  clearing? 

MR.  VOYSEY.     [Arranging  the  folds  of  the  shawl  with 
real  tenderness.']     Now  who's  careless! 
PHCEBE  comes  into  the  room. 
HONOR.     Phcebe,  finish  here  and  then  you  must  bring  in 
the  tray  for  Mr.  Hugh. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.     [^Having  looked  at  the  shawl,  and  honor, 
and  connected  the  matter  in  her  mind.]  Thank  you,  Honor. 
You'd  better  look  after  your  Father;  he's  been  walking 
round  the  garden  without  his  cape. 
HONOR.    Papa ! 

MR.  VOYSEY.  Phoebe,  you  get  that  little  kettle  and  boil 
it,  and  brew  me  some  hot  whiskey  and  water.  I  shall  be 
all  right. 

HONOR.  [Fluttering  more  than  ever.]  I'll  get  it. 
Where's  the  whiskey?  And  Hugh  coming  back  at  ten 
o'clock  with  no  dinner.  No  wonder  his  work  goes  wrong. 
Here  it  is.    Papa,  you  do  deserve  to  be  ill. 

Clasping  the  whiskey  decanter,  she  is  olf  again. 
MRS.  VOYSEY  sits  ot  the  dinner  table  and  adjusts 
her  spectacles.  She  returns  to  Notes  and  Queries, 
one  elbow  firmly  planted  and  her  plump  hand 
against  her  plump  cheek.  This  is  her  favourite  at- 
titude; and  she  is  apt,  when  reading,  to  soliloquise 


ACT  ii]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         51 

in  her  deaf  woman's  voice.    At  least,  whether  she 

considers  it  soliloquy  or  conversation,  is  not  easy  to 

discover,     mr.  voysey  stands  with  his  back  to  the 

fire,  grumbling  and  pulling  faces. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.     This  is  a  very  perplexing  correspondence 

about  the  Cromwell  family.    One  can't  deny  the  man  had 

good   blood   in   him  .  .  his   grandfather   Sir   Henry,   his 

uncle   Sir  Oliver  .  .  and  it's  difficult  to  discover  where 

the  taint  crept  in. 

MR.  VOYSEY.     There's  a  pain  in  my  back.     I  believe  I 
strained  myself  putting  in  all  those  strawberry  plants. 

MARY,  the  house  parlour  maid,  carries  in  a  tray  of 

warmed-up  dinner  for  hugh  and  plants  it  on  the 

table. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.     Ycs,  but  then  how  was  it  he  came  to 

disgrace  himself  so?     I  believe  the   family  disappeared. 

Regicide  is  a  root  and  branch  curse.    You  must  read  this 

letter  signed  C.  W.  A.  .  .  it's  quite  interesting.     There's 

a  misprint  in  mine  about  the  first  umbrella  maker  .  .  now 

where  was  it  .  .  [And  so  the  dear  lady  will  ramble  on 

indefinitely.'] 


5^        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  m 


THE  THIRD  ACT 


The  dining-room  looks  very  different  in  the  white  light 
of  a  July  noon.  Moreozer  on  this  particular  day, 
it  isn't  even  its  normal  self.  There  is  a  peculiar 
luncheon  spread  on  the  table.  The  embroidered 
cloth  is  placed  cornerwise  and  on  it  are  decanters  of 
port  and  sherry;  sandwiches,  biscuits  and  an  uncut 
cake;  two  little  piles  of  plates  and  one  little  pile  of 
napkins.  There  are  no  table  decorations  and  indeed 
the  whole  room  has  been  made  as  bare  and  as  tidy 
as  possible.  Such  preparations  denote  one  of  the 
recognised  English  festivities,  and  the  appearance 
of  PHCEBE,  the  maid,  who  has  just  completed  them, 
the  set  solemnity  of  her  face  and  the  added  touches 
black  to  her  dress  and  cap,  suggest  that  this  is 
probably  a  funeral.  When  mary  comes  in  the  fact 
that  she  has  evidently  been  crying  and  that  she  de- 
corously does  not  raise  her  voice  above  an  un- 
pleasant whisper  makes  it  quite  certain. 
MAKY.     Phoebe,  they're  coming  .  .  and  I  forgot  one  of 

the  blinds  in  the  drawing  room. 

PHCEBE.     Well,    pull    it   up   quick    and   make   yourself 

scarce.    I'll  open  the  door. 

MARY  got  rid  of,  phcebe  composes  her  face  still 
more  rigorously  into  the  aspect  of  formal  grief  and 
with  a  touch  to  her  apron  as  well  goes  to  admit  the 
funeral  party.  The  first  to  enter  are  mrs.  voysey 
and  MR.  BOOTH^  she  on  his  arm;  and  the  fact  that 


:  me 


ACT  III]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         5B 

she  is  in  widow's  weeds  makes  the  occasion  clear. 

The  little  old  man  leads  his  old  friend  very  tenderly, 
MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     Will  you  comc  in  here  ? 
MRS.  VOYSEY.     Thank  you. 

With  great  solicitude  he  puts  her  in  a  chair;  then 

takes  her  hand. 
MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     Now  I'll  intrude  no  longer. 
MRS.  VOYSEY.     You'll  take  some  lunch? 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.      No. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.     .   ot  E  glass  of  wine  ? 
MR.  GEORGE  BOOiH.    If  there's  anything  I  can  do  just 
send  round. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.    Thank  you. 

He  reaches  the  door,  only  to  he  met  by  the  Major 
and  his  wife.    He  shakes  hands  with  them  both. 
MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.    My  dear  Emily!    My  dear  Booth! 
EMILY  is  a  homely,  patient,  pale  little  woman  of 
about  thirty-five.    She  looks  smaller  than  usual  in 
her  heavy  black  dress  and  is  meeker  than  usual  on 
an  occasion  of  this  kind.    The  Major,  on  the  other 
hand,  though  his  grief  is  most  sincere,  has  an  ir- 
resistible air  of  being  responsible  for,  and  indeed 
rather  proud  of  the  whole  affair. 
BOOTH.     I  think  it  all  went  off  as  he  would  have  wished. 
MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     [Feeling  that  he  is  called  on  for 
praise.l    Great  credit  .  .  great  credit. 

He  makes  another  attempt  to  escape  and  is  stopped 
this  time  by  trenchard  voysey,  to  whom  he  is  ex- 
tending a  hand  and  beginning  his  formula.     But 
trenchard  speaks  first. 
trenchard.     Have  you  the  right  time? 
MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     [Taken  aback  and  fumbling  for  his 
watch.l    I  think  so  .  .  I  make  it  fourteen  minutes  to  one. 
[He  seizes  the  occasion.']     Trenchard,  as  a  very  old  and 
dear  friend  of  your  father's,  you,^won't  mind  me  saying 


54         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  m 

how  glad  I  was  that  you  were  present  to-day.  Death 
closes  all.  Indeed  .  .  it  must  be  a  great  regret  to 
you  that  you  did  not  see  him  before  .  .  before  .  . 
TRENCHARD.  [His  cold  eye  freezing  this  little  gush.']  I 
don't  think  he  asked  for  me. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     [Stoppered.']     No?     No!     Well  .  . 
well  .  .  . 

At  this  third  attempt  to  depart  he  actually  collides 
with  someone  in  the  doorway.  It  is  hugh  voysey. 
MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  My  dear  Hugh  .  .  I  won't  intrude. 
Quite  determined  to  escape,  he  grasps  his  hand, 
gasps  out  his  formula  and  is  off.  trenchard  and 
HUGH,  eldest  and  youngest  son,  are  as  unlike  each 
other  as  it  is  possible  for  voyseys  to  he,  hut  that 
isn't  very  unlike,  trenchard  has  in  excelsis  the 
cocksure  manner  of  the  successful  barrister;  hugh 
the  rather  sweet  though  querulous  air  of  diffidence 
and  scepticism  belonging  to  the  unsuccessful  man  of 
letters,  or  artist.  The  self-respect  of  trenciiard's 
appearance  is  immense,  and  he  cultivates  that  air  of 
concentration  upon  any  trivial  matter,  or  even  upon 
nothing  at  all,  which  will  some  day  make  him  an  im- 
pressive figure  upon  the  Bench,  hugh  is  always 
vague,  searching  Heaven  or  the  corners  of  the  room 
for  inspiration,  and  even  on  this  occasion  his  tie  is 
abominably  crooked.  The  inspissated  gloom  of  this 
assembly,  to  which  each  member  of  the  family,  as  he 
arrivdf,  adds  his  share,  is  unbelievable.  Instinct  ap- 
parently leads  them  to  reproduce  as  nearly  as  possi- 
ble Jhe  appearance  and  conduct  of  the  corpse  on 
which  their  minds  are  fixed,  hugh  is  depressed 
'  partly  at  the  inadequacy  of  his  grief:  trenchard 
conscientiously  preserves  an  air  of  the  indifference 
4'  which  he  feels;  booth  stands  statuesque  at  the  man- 
f:    telpiece;  while  emily  is  by  mrs.  voysey,  whose  face 


e  EMIUY  t 


ACT  m]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE  *     55 

in  its  quiet  grief  is,  nevertheless,  a  mirror  of  many 
happy  memories  of  her  husband. 

BOOTH.     I  wouldn't  hang  over  her,  Emily. 

EMILY.     No,  of  course  not. 

Apologetically,  she  sits  by  the  table. 

TRENCHARD.     I  hope  your  wife  is  well,  Hugh? 

HUGH.  Thank  you,  Trench;  I  think  so.  Beatrice  is  in 
America  .  .  on  business. 

TRENCHARD.     Really ! 

There  comes  in  a  small,  well  groomed,  bullet  headed 
boy  in  Etons.  This  is  the  Major's  eldest  son.  Look- 
ing scared  and  solemn,  he  goes  straight  to  his 
mother. 

EMILY.     Now  be  very  quiet,  Christopher  .  . 
Then  denis  tregoning  appears. 

TRENCHARD.     Oh,  Tregouing,  did  you  bring  Honor  back  ? 

DENIS.     Yes. 

BOOTH.     [At  the  table.']    A  glass  of  wine,  Mother. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.    What? 

BOOTH  hardly  knows  how  to  turn  his  whisper  decor- 
ously into  enough  of  a  shout  for  his  mother  to  hear. 
But  he  manages  it. 

BOOTH.     Have  a  glass  of  wine? 

MRS.  VOYSEY.     Sherry,  please. 

While  he  pours  it  out  with  an  air  of  its  being  medi- 
cine on  this  occasion,  and  not  wine  at  all,  edward 
comes  quickly  into  the  room,  his  face  very  set,  his 
mind  obviously  on  other  matters  than  the  funeral. 
No  one  speaks  to  him  for  the  moment,  and  he  has 
time  to  observe  them  all.  trenchard  is  continuing 
his  talk  to  DENIS. 

TRENCHARD.     Givc  my  love  to  Ethel.    Is  she  ill  that 

TREGONING.  Not  exactly,  but  she  couldn't  very  well  be 
with  us.  I  thought  perhaps  you  might  have  heard.  We're 
expecting  .  . 


56        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  iii 

He  hesitates  with  the  hashfiilness  of  a  young  hus- 
band.    TRENCHARD  helps  him  out  with  a  citizen's 
how  of  respect  for  a  citizen's  duty. 
TRENCHARD.     Indeed.     I  congratulate  you.     I  hope  all 
will  be  well.  Please  give  my  love  .  .  my  best  love  to  Ethel. 
BOOTH,     [/m  an  awful  voice.']    Lunch,  Emily? 
EMILY.     [Scared.]     I  suppose  so,  Booth,  thank  you. 
BOOTH.     I  think  the  boy  had  better  run  away  and  play 
.  .  \He  checks  himself  on  the  word.]    Well,  take  a  book, 
and  keep  quiet ;  d'ye  hear  me,  Christopher  ? 

CHRISTOPHER,  zvho  looks  incapable  of  a  sound,  gazes 
at  his  father  with  round  eyes,  emily  whispers 
"Library"  to  him,  and  adds  a  kiss  in  acknowledg- 
ment of  his  good  behaviour.  After  a  moment  he 
slips  out,  thankfully. 
EDWARD.     How's  Ethel,  Denis? 

TREGONiNG.  A  little  Smashed,  of  course,  but  no  harm 
done. 

ALICE  MAiTLAND  comcs  in,  brisk  and  businesslike,  a 

little  impatient  of  this  universal  cloud  of  mourning. 

ALICE.     Edward,  Honor  has  gone  to  her  room.    I  want 

to  take  her  some  food  and  make  her  eat  it.     She's  very 

upset. 

EDWARD.  Make  her  drink  a  glass  of  wine,  and  say  it  is 
necessary  she  should  come  down  here.  And  d'you  mind 
not  coming  back  yourself,  Alice? 

ALICE.     l^Her  eyebrows  up.]     Certainly,  if  you  wish. 
BOOTH.     [^Overhearing.]     What's  this?    What's  this? 
Alice  gets  her  glass  of  wine,  and  goes.    The  Major 
is  suddenly  full  of  importance. 
BOOTH.     What  is  this,  Edward? 
EDWARD.     I  have  something  to  say  to  you  all. 
BOOTH.     What? 
EDWARD.     Well,  Booth,  you'll  hear  when  I  say  it. 


ACT  III]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         57 

BOOTH.     Is  it  business  ?  .  .  because  I  think  this  is  scarce- 
ly the  time  for  business. 
EDWARD.     Why  ? 

BOOTH.  Do  you  find  it  easy  and  reverent  to  descend 
from  your  natural  grief  to  the  consideration  of  money  .  .? 
I  do  not.  [He  finds  trenchard  at  his  elbow.']  I  hope  you 
are  getting  some  lunch,  Trenchard. 

EDWARD.  This  is  business,  and  more  than  business, 
Booth.  I  choose  now,  because  it  is  something  I  wish  to 
say  to  the  family,  not  write  to  each  individually  .  .  and  it 
will  be  difficult  to  get  us  all  together  again. 

BOOTH.  [Determined,  at  any  rate,  to  give  his  sanction.'] 
Well,  Trenchard,  as  Edward  is  in  the  position  of  trustee — 
executor  .  .  I  don't  know  your  terms  .  .  I  suppose  there's 
nothing  more  to  be  said. 
TRENCHARD.  I  don't  scc  what  your  objection  is. 
BOOTH.  [With  some  superiority.]  Don't  you?  I  should 
not  have  called  myself  a  sentimental  man,  but  .  . 

EDWARD.  You  had  better  stay,  Denis;  you  represent 
Ethel. 

TREGONiNG.  [Who  has  not  heard  the  beginning  of  this.] 
Why?  .  . 

HONOR  has  obediently  come  down  from  her  room. 
She  is  pale  and  thin,  shaken  with  grief  and  worn  out 
besides;  for,  needless  to  say,  the  brunt  of  her  father's 
illness,  the  brunt  of  everything,  has  been  on  her. 
^    Six  weeks'  nursing,  part  of  it  hopeless,  will  exhaust 
anyone.    Her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  every 
minute  or  two  she  cascades  tears,    edward  goes  and 
affectionately  puts  his  arm  round  her. 
EDWARD.     My  dear  Honor,  I  am  sorry  to  be  so  .  .  so 
merciless.     There!  .  .  there!      [He  hands  her  into  the 
room;  then  shuts  the  door;  then  turns  and  once  more  sur- 
veys the  family,  who  this  time  mostly  return  the  compli- 
ment.   Then  he  says  shortly.]     I  think  you  might  all  sit 


58        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  m 

down.  [But  he  goes  close  to  his  mother  and  speaks  very 
distinctly,  very  kindly.'\  Mother,  we're  all  going  to  have  a 
little  necessary  talk  over  matters  .  .  now,  because  it's 
most  convenient.  I  hope  it  won't  .  .  I  hope  you  don't 
mind.    Will  you  come  to  the  table? 

MRS.  VOYSEY  looks  Up  as  if  Understanding  more  than 
he  says. 
MRS.  VOYSEY.    Edward  .  . 
EDWARD.    Yes,  mother? 

BOOTH.  [Commandingly.'\  You'll  sit  here,  mother,  of 
course. 

He  places  her  in  her  accustomed  chair  at  the  foot 
of  the  table.     One  by  one  the  others  sit  down, 
EDWAR  3  apparently  last.    But  then  he  discovers  that 
HUGH  has  lost  himself  in  a  corner  of  the  room  and 
is  gazing  into  vacancy. 
EDWARD.    Hugh,  would  you  mind  attending? 
HUGH.    What  is  it? 
EDWARD.     There's  a  chair. 

HUGH  takes  it.  Then  for  a  minute — while  edward 
is  trying  to  frame  in  coherent  sentences  what  he 
must  say  to  them — for  a  minute  there  is  silence, 
broken  only  by  honor's  sniffs,  which  culminate  at 
last  in  a  noisy  little  cascade  of  tears. 
BOOTH.     Honor,  control  yourself. 

And  to  emphasise  his  own  perfect  control  he  helps 
himself  majestically  to  a  glass  of  sherry.     Then 
says  .  . 
BOOTH.     Well,  Edward? 

EDWARD.  I'll  come  straight  to  the  point  which  concerns 
you.  Our  father's  will  gives  certain  sums  to  you  all  .  . 
the  gross  amount  something  over  a  hundred  thousand 
pounds.    There  will  be  no  money. 

He  can  get  no  further  than  the  bare  statement, 
which  is  received  only  with  varying  looks  of  he- 


ACT  III]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         59 

wilderment,  until  mrs.  voysey,  discovering  nothing 
from  their  faces,  breaks  this  second  silence. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.     I  didn't  hear. 

HUGH.  \In  his  mother's  ear.l  Edward  says  there's 
no  money. 

TRENCHARD.     [Precisely.']    I  think  you  said  .  .  'will  be.' 

BOOTH.  \In  a  tone  of  mitigated  thunder.]  Why  will 
there  be  no  money? 

EDWARD.  [Letting  himself  go.]  Because  every  penny  by 
right  belongs  to  those  clients  whom  our  father  spent  his 
life  in  defrauding.  When  I  say  defrauding,  I  mean  it  in 
its  worst  sense  .  .  swindling  .  .  thieving.  I  have  been 
in  the  swim  of  it,  for  the  past  year  .  .  oh,  you  don't  know 
the  sink  of  iniquity  .  .  and  therefore  I  mean  to  collect 
every  penny,  any  money  that  you  can  give  me ;  put  the  firm 
into  bankruptcy;  pay  back  all  these  people  what  we  can. 
I'll  stand  my  trial  .  .  it'll  come  to  that  with  me  .  .  and  as 
soon  as  possible.  [He  pauses,  partly  for  breath,  and  glares 
at  them  all.]  Are  none  of  you  going  to  speak?  Quite 
right,  what  is  there  to  be  said  !  [Then  with  a  gentle  after- 
thought.]   I'm  sorry  to  hurt  you,  mother. 

The  VOYSEY  family  is  simply  buried  deep  by  this 
avalanche  of  horror,  mrs.  voysey,  though,  who 
has  been  watching  edward  closely,  says  very  calmly. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.  I  Can't  hear  quite  all  you  say,  but  I  guess 
what  it  is.  You  don't  hurt  me,  Edward  .  .  I  have  known 
of  this  for  a  long  time. 

EDWARD.  [With  almost  a  cry.]  Oh,  mother,  did  he 
know  you  knew? 

MRS.  VOYSEY.     What  do  you  say  ? 

TRENCHARD.  [Collected  and  dry.]  I  may  as  well  tell 
you,  Edward,  I  suspected  everything  wasn't  right  about 
the  time  of  my  last  quarrel  with  my  father.  Of  course,  I 
took  care  not  to  pursue  my  suspicions.  Was  father  aware 
that  you  knew,  Mother? 


60        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  in 

MRS.  VOYSEY.  We  nevcf  discussed  it.  There  was  once 
a  great  danger  .  .  when  you  were  all  younger  .  .  of  his 
being  found  out.    But  we  never  discussed  it. 

EDWARD.  [Szvalloming  a  fresh  bitterness."]  I'm  glad 
it  isn't  such  a  shock  to  all  of  you. 

HUGH.  [Alive  to  a  dramatic  aspect  of  the  matter.]  My 
God  .  .  before  the  earth  has  settled  on  his  grave ! 

EDWARD.     I  thought  it  wrong  to  postpone  telling  you. 
HONOR,  the  word  swindling  having  spelt  itself  out 
in  her  mind,  at  last  gives  way  to  a  burst  of  piteous 
grief. 
HONOR.    Oh,  poor  papa !  .  .  poor  papa ! 
EDWARD.     [Comforting  her  kindly.]     Honor,   we  shall 
want  your  help  and  advice. 

The  Major  has  recovered  from  the  shock,  to  swell 

with  importance.    It  being  necessary  to  make  an 

impression  he  instinctively  turns  first  to  his  wife. 

BOOTH.    I  think,  Emily,  there  was  no  need  for  you  to 

have  been  present  at  this  exposure,  and  that  now  you  had 

better  retire. 

EMILY.    Very  well.  Booth. 

She  gets  up  to  go,  conscious  of  her  misdemeanour. 

But  as  she  reaches  the  door,  an  awful  thought 

strikes  the  Major. 

BOOTH.     Good  Heavens  .  .  I  hope  the  servants  haven't 

been  listening!     See  where  they  are,  Emily  .  .  and  keep 

them  away,  distract  them.    Open  the  door  suddenly.    [She 

does  so,  more  or  less,  and  there  is  no  one  behind  it.]  That's 

all  right. 

Having   watched   his  wife's  departure,   he   turns 
with  gravity  to  his  brother, 
BOOTH.    I  have  said  nothing  as  yet,  Edward.     I  am 
thinking. 

trencHard.  [A  little  impatient  at  this  exhibition.] 
That's  the  worst  of  these  family  practices  .  .  a  lot  of 


ACT  m]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         61 

money  knocking  around  and  no  audit  ever  required.    The 
wonder  to  me  is  to  find  an  honest  solicitor  at  all. 

BOOTH.     Really,  Trenchard ! 

TRENCHARD.  Well,  the  more  able  a  man  is  the  less  the 
word  Honesty  bothers  him  .  .  and  the  Pater  was  an  able 
man. 

EDWARD.  I  thought  that  a  year  ago,  Trenchard.  T 
thought  that  at  the  worst  he  was  a  splendid  criminal. 

BOOTH.    Really  .  .  really,  Edward! 

EDWARD.  And  everything  was  to  come  right  in  the  end 
.  .  we  were  all  to  be  in  reality  as  wealthy  and  as  pros- 
perous as  we  have  seemed  to  be  all  these  years.  But 
when  he  fell  ill  .  .  towards  the  last  he  couldn't  keep  the 
facts  from  me  any  longer. 

TRENCHARD.     And  thesc  are? 

EDWARD.  Laughable.  You  wouldn't  believe  there  were 
such  fools  in  the  world  as  some  of  these  wretched  clients 
have  been.  I  tell  you  the  firm's  funds  were  just  a  lucky 
bag  into  which  he  dipped.  Now  sometimes  their  money 
doesn't  even  exist. 

BOOTH.    Where's  it  gone? 

EDWARD.     [Very  directly.']    You've  been  living  on  it. 

BOOTH.     Good  God! 

TRENCHARD.     What  Can  you  pay  in  the  pound? 

EDWARD.     Without   help?  .  .  six   or   seven   shillings,   I 
daresay.    But  we  must  do  better  than  that. 
To  which  there  is  no  response. 

BOOTH.  All  this  is  very  dreadful.  Does  it  mean  beg- 
gary for  the  whole  family? 

EDWARD.     Yes,  it  should. 

TRENCHARD.     iSharply.']    Nonsense ! 

EDWARD.  IJoining  issue  at  once.]  What  right  have  we 
to  a  thing  we  possess? 

TRENCHARD.  He  didn't  make  you  an  allowance,  Booth 
.  .  your  capital's  your  own,  isn't  it? 


62         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  iii 

BOOTH.  [Awkwardly  placed  between  the  two  of  them.'] 
Really  .  .  I — I  suppose  so. 

TRENCHARD.     Then  that's  all  right. 

EDWARD.     [Vehemently.']    It's  stolen  money. 

TRENCHARD.     Booth  took  it  in  good  faith. 

BOOTH.     I  should  hope  so. 

EDWARD.     [Dwelling  on  the  words.]     It's  stolen  money. 

BOOTH.  [Bubbling  with  distress.]  I  say,  what  ought  I 
to  do? 

TRENCHARD.     Do  .  .  my  dear  Booth?    Nothing. 

EDWARD.  [With  great  indignation.]  Trenchard,  we  owe 
reparation 

TRENCHARD.  [Readily.]  To  whom?  From  which  ac- 
count was  Booth's  money  taken? 

EDWARD.  [Side  tracked  for  the  moment.]  I  don't  know 
.  .  I  daresay  from  none  directly. 

TRENCHARD.     Very  well,  then. 

EDWARD.    [Grieved.]    Trenchard,  you  argue  as  he  did 

TRENCHARD.  Nonscnsc,  my  dear  Edward.  The  law  will 
take  anything  it  has  a  right  to,  and  all  it  can  get;  you 
needn't  be  afraid.  There's  no  obligation,  legal  or  moral, 
for  us  to  throw  our  pounds  into  the  wreck,  that  they  may 
become  pence. 

EDWARD.    I  can  hear  him. 

TRENCHARD.  But  what  about  your  own  position  .  .  can 
we  get  you  clear? 

EDWARD.    That  doesn't  matter. 

booth's  head  has  been  turning  incessantly  from  one 
to  the  other,  and  by  this  he  is  just  a  bristle  of  alarm. 

booth.  But  I  say,  you  know,  this  is  awful !  Will  this 
have  to  be  made  public? 

TRENCHARD.     No  help  for  it. 

The  Major's  jaw  drops;  he  is  speechless,    mrs.  voy- 
sey's  dead  voice  steals  in. 

MRS,  VOYSEY.     What  is  all  this? 


ACT  m]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         63 

TRENCHARD.     Edward  wishes  us  to  completely  beggar 

ourselves  in  order  to  pay  back  to  every  client  to  whom 

father  owed  a  pound  perhaps  ten  shillings  instead  of  seven. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.     He  will  find  that  my  estate  has  been  kept 

quite  separate. 

EDWARD  hides  his  face  in  his  hands. 
TRENCHARD.     I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it,  Mother. 
MRS.    VOYSEY.     When    Mr.    Barnes    died,    your    father 
agreed  to  appointing  another  trustee. 

TREGONiNG.     \_Diffidently.'\     I  suppose,  Edward,  I'm  in- 
volved. 

EDWARD.     [^Lifting  his  head  quickly.']    Denis,  I  hope  not. 

I  didn't  know  that  anything  of  yours 

TREGONING.     Ycs  .  .  all  that  I  got  under  my  aunt's  will. 
EDWARD.    You  see  how  things  are  .  .  I've  discovered  no 
trace  of  that.    We'll  hope  for  the  best. 

TREGONING.    {^Setting  his  teeth.']    It  can't  be  helped. 

MAJOR  BOOTH  Icans  over  the  table  and  speaks  in  the 
loudest  of  whispers. 
BOOTH.     Let  me  advise  you  to  say  nothing  of  this  to 
Ethel  at  such  a  critical  time. 

TREGONING.     Thank  you,  Booth,  naturally  I  shall  not. 
HUGH,  hy  a  series  of  contortions,  has  lately  been 
giving  evidence  of  a  desire  or  intention  to  say  some- 
thing. 
EDWARD.     Well,  what  is  it,  Hugh? 
HUGH.    I  have  been  wondering  .  .  if  he  can  hear  this 
conversation. 

Up  to  now  it  has  all  been  meaningless  to  honor,  in 
her  nervous  dilapidation,  but  this  remark  brings  a 
fresh  burst  of  tears. 
HONOR.     Oh,  poor  papa  .  .  poor  papa ! 
MRS.  VOYSEY.     I  think  I'll  go  to  my  room.    I  can't  hear 
what  any  of  you  are  saying.    Edward  can  tell  me  after- 
wards. 


64         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  iii 

EDWARD.     Would  you  like  to  go,  too,  Honor? 

HONOR.     [Through  her  sobs.']     Yes,  please,  I  would. 

TREGONiNG.  And  I'll  get  out,  Edward.  Whatever  you 
think  fit  to  do  .  .  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  there's  only  one 
thing  to  be  done. 

EDWARD.     Only  that. 

TREGONING.  I  wish  I  wcrc  in  a  better  position  as  to 
work,  for  Ethel's  sake  and — and  the  child's. 

EDWARD.     Shall  I  speak  to  Trenchard? 

TREGONING.  No  .  .  he  knows  I  exist  in  a  wig  and  gown. 
If  I  can  be  useful  to  him,  he'll  be  useful  to  me,  I  daresay. 
Good-bye,  Hugh.     Good-bye,  Booth. 

By  this  time  mrs.  voysey  and  honor  have  been  got 
out  of  the  room;  tregoning  follows  them.  So  the 
four  brothers  are  left  together,  hugh  is  vacant, 
EDWARD  does  not  speak,  booth  looks  at  trenchard, 
who  settles  himself  to  acquire  information. 

TRENCHARD.     How  long  have  things  been  wrong? 

EDWARD.  He  told  me  the  trouble  began  in  his  father's 
time,  and  that  he'd  been  battling  with  it  ever  since. 

TRENCHARD.  [Smiling.]  Oh,  come  now  . .  that's  im- 
possible. 

EDWARD.  But  I  believed  him !  Now  I  look  through  his 
papers,  I  can  find  only  one  irregularity  that's  more  than 
ten  years  old,  and  that's  only  to  do  with  old  George 
Booth's  business. 

BOOTH.  But  the  Pater  never  touched  his  money  .  .  why, 
he  was  a  personal  friend. 

EDWARD.     Did  you  hear  what  Denis  said? 

TRENCHARD..  Very  curious  his  evolving  that  fiction  about 
his  father  .  .  I  wonder  why.  I  remember  the  old  man. 
He  was  as  honest  as  the  day. 

EDWARD.     To  gain  sympathy,  I  suppose. 

TRENCHARD.  I  think  oue  can  trace  the  psychology  of  it 
deeper  than  that.    It  would  add  a  fitness  to  the  situation 


ACT  m]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         65 

.  .  his  handing  on  to  you  an  inheritance  he  had  received. 
You  know  every  criminal  has  a  touch  of  the  artist  in  him. 

HUGH.     [Suddenly  roused.']    That's  true. 

TRENCHARD.  What  positiou  did  you  take  upon  the  mat- 
ter when  he  told  you? 

EDWARD.  [^Shrugging,']  You  know  what  the  Pater  was 
as  well  as  I. 

TRENCHARD.     Well  .  .  what  did  you  attempt  to  do? 

EDWARD.  I  urged  him  to  start  by  making  some  of  the 
smaller  accounts  right.  He  said  .  .  he  said  that  would  be 
penny  wise  and  pound  foolish.  So  I  did  what  I  could 
myself. 

TRENCHARD.    With  your  owu  moncy  ? 

EDWARD.     The  little  I  had. 

TRENCHARD.     Can  you  prove  that  you  did  that? 

EDWARD.    I  suppose  I  could. 

TRENCHARD.      It's  a  gOOd  poiut. 

BOOTH.     [Not  to  he  quite  left  out.]    Yes,  I  must  say 

TRENCHARD.  You  ought  to  have  written  him  a  letter, 
and  left  the  firm  the  moment  you  found  out.  Even  then, 
legally  .  .  !  But  as  he  was  your  father.  What  was  his 
object  in  telling  you?    What  did  he  expect  you  to  do? 

EDWARD.  I've  thought  of  every  reason  .  .  and  now  I 
really  believe  it  was  that  he  might  have  someone  to  boast 
to  of  his  financial  exploits. 

TRENCHARD.     [^Appreciatively.]    I  daresay. 

BOOTH.     Scarcely  matters  to  boast  of. 

TRENCHARD.  Oh,  you  try  playing  the  fool  with  other 
people's  money,  and  keeping  your  neck  out  of  the  noose 
for  twelve  years.    It's  not  so  easy. 

EDWARD.  Then,  of  course,  he  always  protested  that 
things  would  come  right  .  .  that  he'd  clear  the  firm  and 
have  a  fortune  to  the  good.  Or  that  if  he  were  not  spared 
I  might  do  it,  But  he  must  have  known  that  was  impos- 
sible. 


66         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  ni 

TRENCHARD.     But  there's  the  gambler  all  over. 

EDWARD.  Why,  he  actually  took  the  trouble  to  draw  up 
this  will ! 

TRENCHARD.    That  was  childish. 

EDWARD.     I'm  the  sole  executor. 

TRENCHARD.  So  I  should  think  .  .  Was  I  down  for 
anything  ? 

EDWARD.      No. 

TRENCHARD.  [Without  resentment.']  How  he  did  hate 
me ! 

EDWARD.  You're  safe  from  the  results  of  his  affection, 
anyway. 

TRENCHARD.  What  ou  earth  made  you  stay  in  the  firm, 
once  you  knew? 

EDWARD  does  not  answer  for  a  moment. 
EDWARD.     I  thought  I  might  prevent  things  from  getting 
any  worse.    I  think  I  did  .  .  well,  I  should  have  done  that 
if  he'd  lived. 

TRENCHARD.     You  kucw  the  Hsk  you  were  running? 
EDWARD.     [Bowing  his  head.']    Yes. 

TRENCHARD,  the  Only  one  of  the  three  who  compre- 
hends,  looks  at  his  brother  for  a  moment  with  some- 
thing that  might  almost  he  admiration.  Then  he 
stirs  himself. 
TRENCHARD.  I  must  be  off.  Busiuess  waiting  .  .  end 
of  term,  you  know. 

BOOTH.     Shall  I  walk  to  the  station  with  you? 
TRENCHARD.     I'll   Spend  a   few  minutes  with  Mother. 
[He  says,  at  the  door,  very  respectfully.]    You'll  count  on 
my  professional  assistance,  please,  Edward. 
EDWARD.     [Simply.]    Thank  you,  Trenchard. 

So  TRENCHARD  goes.  And  the  Major,  who  has  been 
endeavouring  to  fathom  his  final  attitude,  then  com- 
ments  

BOOTH.    No  heart,  y'know  I    Great  brain !    If  it  hadn't 


ACT  m]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         67 

been  for  that  distressing  quarrel  he  might  have  saved  our 
poor  father.    Don't  you  think  so,  Edward? 

EDWARD.     Perhaps. 

HUGH.  [Giving  vent  to  his  thoughts  at  last  with  some- 
thing of  a  relish.']  The  more  I  think'  this  out,  the  more 
deviHshly  humorous  it  gets.  Old  Booth  breaking  down  by 
the  grave  .  .  Colpus  reading  the  service  .  . 

EDWARD.     Yes,  the  Vicar's  badly  hit. 

HUGH.  Oh,  the  Pater  had  managed  his  business  for 
years. 

BOOTH.  Good  God  .  .  how  shall  we  ever  look  old  Booth 
in  the  face  again? 

EDWARD.  I  don't  worry  about  him;  he  can  die  quite 
comfortably  enough  on  six  shillings  in  the  pound.  It's 
one  or  two  of  the  smaller  fry  who  will  suffer. 

BOOTH.  Now,  just  explain  to  me  .  ,  I  didn't  interrupt 
while  Trenchard  was  talking  .  .  of  what  exactly  did  this 
defrauding  consist? 

EDWARD.  Speculating  with  a  client's  capital  .  .  pocket- 
ing the  gains,  cutting  the  losses;  meanwhile  paying  the 
client  his  ordinary  income. 

BOOTH.     So  that  he  didn't  find  it  out? 

EDWARD.     Quite  so. 

BOOTH.     In  point  of  fact,  he  doesn't  suffer? 

EDWARD.     He  doesn't  suffer  till  he  finds  it  out. 

BOOTH.  And  all  that's  wrong  now  is  that  some  of  their 
capital  is  missing. 

EDWARD.  [Half  amused,  half  amazed  at  this  process  of 
reasoning.']    Yes,  that's  all  that's  wrong. 

BOOTH.  What  is  the  ah — deficit?  [The  word  rolls  from 
his  tongue,] 

EDWARD.  Anything  between  two  and  three  hundred 
thousand  pounds. 

BOOTH.  [Very  impressed,  and  not  unfavourably.']  Dear 
me  .  .  this  is  a  big  affair ! 


68        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  m 

HUGH.  [Following  his  own  line  of  thought.']  Quite 
apart  from  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  this,  only  a  very  able 
man  could  have  kept  a  straight  face  to  the  world  all  these 
years,  as  Pater  did. 

BOOTH.  I  suppose  he  sometimes  made  money  by  these 
speculations. 

EDWARD.  Very  often.  His  own  expenditure  was  heavy, 
as  you  know. 

BOOTH.  [With  gratitude  for  favors  received.']  He  was 
a  very  generous  man. 

HUGH.     Did  nobody  ever  suspect  him? 

EDWARD.  You  see,  Hugh,  when  there  was  any  danger 
.  .  when  a  trust  had  to  be  wound  up  .  .  he'd  make  a  great 
effort,  and  put  the  accounts  straight. 

BOOTH.     Then  he  did  put  some  accounts  straight? 

EDWARD.     Yes,  when  he  couldn't  help  himself. 

BOOTH  looks  very  enquiring,  and  then  squares  him- 
self up  to  the  subject. 

BOOTH.  Now  look  here,  Edward.  You  told  us  that  he 
told  you  that  it  was  the  object  of  his  life  to  put  these  ac- 
counts straight.  Then  you  laughed  at  that.  Now  you  tell 
me  that  he  did  put  some  accounts  straight. 

EDWARD.  [Wearily.]  My  dear  Booth,  you  don't  under- 
stand. 

BOOTH.  Well,  let  me  understand  .  .  I  am  anxious  to 
understand. 

EDWARD.     We  can't  pay  ten  shillings  in  the  pound. 

BOOTH.  That's  very  dreadful.  But  do  you  know  that 
there  wasn't  a  time  when  we  couldn't  have  paid  five? 

EDWARD.     [Acquiescent.]    I  don't  know. 

BOOTH.  Very  well,  then !  If  what  he  said  was  true 
about  his  father  and  all  that  .  .  and  why  shouldn't  we  be- 
lieve him  if  we  can  ?  .  .  and  he  did  effect  an  improvement, 
that's  all  to  his  credit.    Let  us  at  least  be  jus^,  Edward. 


ACT  III]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         69 

EDWARD.  [Patiently  polite.']  I  am  very  sorry  to  appear 
unjust.    He  has  left  me  in  a  rather  unfortunate  position. 

BOOTH.  Yes,  his  death  was  a  tragedy.  It  seems  to  me 
that  if  he  had  been  spared  he  might  have  succeeded  at 
length  in  this  tremendous  task,  and  restored  to  us  our 
family  honour. 

EDWARD.     Yes,  Booth,  he  spoke  very  feelingly  of  that. 

BOOTH.  [Irony  lost  upon  him.]  I  can  well  believe  it. 
And  I  can  tell  you  that  now  .  .  I  may  be  right  or  I  may  be 
wrong  .  .  I  am  feeling  far  less  concernedabout  the  clients* 
money  than  I  am  at  the  terrible  blow  to  the  Family  which 
this  exposure  will  strike.  Money,  after  all,  can  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  be  done  without  .  .  but  Honour 

This  is  too  much  for  edward. 

EDWARD.  Our  honour !  Does  one  of  you  mean  to  give 
me  a  single  penny  towards  undoing  all  the  wrong  that 
has  been  done? 

BOOTH.  I  take  Trenchard's  word  for  it  that  that  would 
be  illegal. 

EDWARD.     Well  .  .  don't  talk  to  me  of  honour. 

BOOTH.  [Somewhat  nettled  at  this  outburst.']  I  am 
speaking  of  the  public  exposure.  Edward,  can't  that  be 
prevented  ? 

EDWARD.     [With  quick  suspicion.]    How? 

BOOTH.  Well  .  .  how  was  it  being  prevented  before  he 
died — before  we  knew  anything  about  it? 

EDWARD.  [Appealing  to  the  spirits  that  watch  over  him.] 
Oh,  listen  to  this !  First  Trenchard  .  .  and  now  you ! 
You've  the  poison  in  your  blood,  every  one  of  you.  Who 
am  I  to  talk?    I  daresay  so  have  I. 

BOOTH.  [Reprovingly.]  I  am  beginning  to  think  that 
you  have  worked  yourself  into  rather  an  hysterical  state 
over  this  unhappy  business. 

EDWARD.  [Rating  him.]  Perhaps  you'd  have  been  glad 
.  .  glad  if  I'd  held  my  tongue  and  gone  on  lying  and  cheat- 


70        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  iii 

ing  .  .  and  married  and  begotten  a  son  to  go  on  lying  and 
cheating  after  me  .  .  and  to  pay  you  your  interest  .  .  your 
interest  in  the  lie  and  the  cheat. 

BOOTH.  [With  statesmanlike  calm.']  Look  here,  Edward, 
this  rhetoric  is  exceedingly  out  of  place.  The  simple  ques- 
tion before  us  is  .  .  What  is  the  best  course  to  pursue? 

EDWARD.  There  is  no  question  before  us.  There's  only 
one  course  to  pursue. 

BOOTH.  [Crushingly.l  You  will  let  me  speak,  please. 
In.  so  far  as  our  poor  father  was  dishonest  to  his  clients, 
I  pray  that  he  may  be  forgiven.  In  so  far  as  he  spent  his 
life  honestly  endeavouring  to  right  a  wrong  which  he  had 
found  already  committed  .  .  I  forgive  him.  I  admire  him, 
Edward.  And  I  feel  it  my  duty  to — er — reprobate  most 
strongly  the — er — gusto  with  which  you  have  been  hold- 
ing him  up  in  memory  to  us  .  .  ten  minutes  after  we  have 
stood  round  his  grave  .  .  as  a  monster  of  wickedness.  I 
think  I  may  say  I  knew  him  as  well  as  you  .  .  better.  And 
.  .  thank  God !  .  .  there  was  not  between  him  and  me  this 
— this  unhappy  business  to  warp  my  judgment  of  him. 
[He  warms  to  his  subject.]  Did  you  ever  know  a  more 
charitable  man  .  .  a  larger-hearted?  He  was  a  faithful 
husband  .  .  and  what  a  father  to  all  of  us,  putting  us  out 
into  the  world  and  fully  intending  to  leave  us  comfortably 
settled  there.  Further  .  .  as  I  see  this  matter,  Edward  .  . 
when  as  a  young  man  he  was  told  this  terrible  secret,  and 
entrusted  with  such  a  frightful  task  .  .  did  he  turn  his 
back  on  it  like  a  coward  ?  No.  He  went  through  it  hero- 
ically to  the  end  of  his  life.  And  as  he  died  I  imagine 
there  was  no  more  torturing  thought  than  that  he  had  left 
his  work  unfinished.  [He  is  very  satisfied  with  this  pero- 
ration.] And  now  if  all  these  clients  can  be  kept  receiving 
their  natural  income,  and  if  Father's  plan  could  be  carried 

out  of  gradually  replacing  the  capital 

EDWARD  at  this  raises  his  head  and  stares  with  horror. 


ACT  III]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         71 

EDWARD.  You're  appealing  to  me  to  carry  on  this  .  . 
Oh,  you  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about! 

The  Major,  having  talked  himself  hack  to  a  proper 
eminence,  remains  good-tempered. 

BOOTH.  Well,  I'm  not  a  conceited  man  .  .  but  I  do  think 
that  I  can  understand  a  simple  financial  problem  when  it 
has  been  explained  to  me. 

EDWARD.  You  don't  know  the  nerve  .  .  the  unscrupu- 
lous daring  it  requires  to 

BOOTH.  Of  course,  if  you're  going  to  argue  round  your 
own  incompetence 

EDWARD.     [Very  straight.']    D'you  want  your  legacy? 

BOOTH.  [With  dignity.']  In  one  moment  I  shall  get 
very  angry.  Here  am  I  doing  my  best  to  help  you  and 
your  clients  .  .  and  there  you  sit  imputing  to  me  the  most 
sordid  motives.  Do  you  suppose  I  should  touch  or  allow 
to  be  touched  the  money  which  father  has  left  us  till  every 
client's  claim  was  satisfied? 

EDWARD.    My  dear  Booth,  I'm  sure  you  mean  well- 

BOOTH.  I'll  come  down  to  your  office  and  work  with  you. 
At  this  cheerful  prospect  even  poor  edward  can't 
help  smiling. 

EDWARD.     Why,  you'd  be  found  out  at  once. 

BOOTH.     [Feeling  that  it  is  a  chance  lost.]     Well,  of 

course  the  Pater  never  consulted  me.    I  only  know  what  I 

feel  ought  to  be  possible.    I  can  but  make  the  suggestion. 

At  this  point  trench ard  looks  round  the  door  to 

say  .  . 

trenchard.     Are  you  coming,  Booth  ? 

booth.  Yes,  certainly.  I'll  talk  this  over  with  Tren- 
chard. [As  he  gets  up  and  automatically  stiffens,  he  is  re- 
minded of  the  occasion,  and  his  voice  drops.]  I  say  .  . 
we've  been  speaking  very  loud.  You  must  do  nothing  rash. 
I've  no  doubt  I  can  devise  something  which  will  obviate  .  . 
and  then  I'm  sure  I  shall  convince  you  .  .  [Glancing  into 


72        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  m 

the  hall,  he  apparently  catches  trenchard's  impatient  eye, 
for  he  departs  abruptly,  saying  .  .  ]  All  right,  Trenchard, 
you've  eight  minutes. 

booth's  departure  leaves  hugh^  at  any  rate,  really 
at  his  ease. 
HUGH.     What  an  experience  for  you,  Edward ! 
EDWARD.      [Bitterly.]      And   I    feared   what   the   shock 
might  be  to  you  all !    Booth  has  made  a  good  recovery. 

HUGH.     You  wouldn't  have  him  miss  such  a  chance  of 
booming  at  us  all? 

EDWARD.  It's  strange  the  number  of  people  who  believe 
you  can  do  right  by  means  which  they  know  to  be  wrong. 
HUGH.  [Taking  great  interest  in  this.']  Come,  what  do 
we  know  about  right  and  wrong?  Let's  say  legal  and 
illegal.  You're  so  down  on  the  Governor  because  he  has 
trespassed  against  the  etiquette  of  your  own  profession. 
But  now  he's  dead  .  .  and  if  there  weren't  the  disgrace  to 
think  of  .  .  it's  no  use  the  rest  of  us  pretending  to  feel 
him  a  criminal,  because  we  don't.    Which  just  shows  that 

money  .  .  and  property 

At  this  point  he  becomes  conscious  that  alice  mait- 
LAND  is  standing  behind  him,  her  eyes  fixed  on  his 
brother.    So  he  interrupts  himself  to  ask  .  . 
HUGH.    D'you  want  to  speak  to  Edward? 
ALICE.     Please,  Hugh. 
HUGH.     I'll  go. 

He  goes,  a  little  martyrlike,  to  conclude  the  evolu- 
tion of  his  theory  in  soliloquy;  his  usual  fate,    alice 
still  looks  at  EDWARD  with  soft  eyes,  and  he  at  her 
rather  appealingly. 
ALICE.     Auntie  has  told  me. 

EDWARD.     He  was  fond  of  you.     Don't  think  worse  of 
him  than  you  can  help. 

ALICE.     I'm  thinking  of  you. 
EDWARD.    I  may  just  escape. 


ACT  III]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         7S 

ALICE.     So  Trenchard  says. 

EDWARD.     My  hands  are  clean,  Alice. 

ALICE.     [Her  voice  falling  lovingly.^    I  know  that. 

EDWARD.     Mother's  not  very  upset. 

ALICE.     She  had  expected  a  smash  in  his  life  time. 

EDWARD.     I'm  glad  that  didn't  happen. 

ALICE.  Yes  .  .  as  the  fault  was  his  it  won't  hurt  you 
sQ^uch  to  stand  up  to  the  blame.  ""~ 

EDWARD  looks  pussled  at  this  for  a  moment,  then 
gives  it  up. 

EDWARD.     I'm  hurt  enough  now. 

ALICE.  Why,  what  have  the  boys  done  ?  It  was  a  mercy 
to  tell  Honor  just  at  this  time.  She  can  grieve  for  his 
death  and  his  disgrace  at  the  same  time  .  .  and  the  one 
grief  lessens  the  other  perhaps. 

EDWARD.  Oh,  they're  all  shocked  enough  at  the  disgrace 
.  .  but  will  they  open  their  purses  to  lessen  the  disgrace? 

alIce.  Will  it  seem  less  disgraceful  to  have  stolen  ten 
thousand  pounds  than  twenty  ? 

EDWARD,     I  should  think  so. 

ALICE.  I  should  think  so,  but  I  wonder  if  that's  the 
Law.  If  it  isn't,  Trenchard  wouldn't  consider  the  point. 
I'm  sure  Public  Opinion  doesn't  say  so  .  .  and  that's  what 
Booth  is  considering. 

EDWARD.     [With  contempt.]    Yes. 

ALICE.  [Ever  so  gently  ironical.]  Well,  he's  in  the 
Army  .  .  he's  almost  in  Society  .  .  and  he  has  to  get  on 
in  both;  one  mustn't  blame  him.  Of  course,  if  the  money 
could  have  been  given  up  with  a  flourish  of  trumpets  .  .  ! 
But  even  then  I  doubt  whether  the  advertisement  would 
bring  in  what  it  cost. 

EDWARD.  [Very  serious.]  But  when  one  thinks  how  the 
money  was  obtained ! 

ALICE.     When  one  thinks  how  mobt  money  is  obtained  1 

EDWARD.    They've  not  earned  it. 


^1 


74        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  m 

ALICE.  [Her  eyes  humorous,']  If  they  had,  they  might 
have  given  it  you  and  earned  more.  Did  I  ever  tell  you 
what  my  guardian  said  to  me  when  I  came  of  age  ? 

EDWARD.     Fm  thankful  your  money's  not  been  in  danger. 

ALICE.  It  might  have  been,  but  I  was  made  to  look  after 
it  myself  .  .  much  against  my  will.  My  guardian  was  a 
person  of  great  character  and  no  principles,  the  best  and 
most  lovable  man  I've  ever  met  .  .  I'm  sorry  you  never 
knew  him,  Edward  .  .  and  he  said  once  to  me  .  .  You've 
no  right  to  your  money.  You've  not  earned  it  or  deserved 
it  in  any  way.  Therefore,  don't  be  surprised  or  annoyed 
if  any  enterprising  person  tries  to  get  it  from  you.  He 
has  at  least  as  much  right  to  it  as  you  have  .  .  if  he  can 
use  it  better,  he  has  more  right.  Shocking  sentiments, 
aren't  they  ?  No  respectable  man  of  business  could  own  to 
them.  But  I'm  not  so  sorry  for  some  of  these  clients  as 
you  are,  Edward. 

EDWARD  shakes  his  head,  treating  these  paradoxes  as 
they  deserve. 

EDWARD.    Alice  .  .  one  or  two  of  them  will  be  beggared. 

ALICE.  \_Sincerely.']  Yes,  that  is  serious.  What's  to  be 
done? 

EDWARD.  There's  old  nurse  .  .  with  her  poor  little  sav- 
ings gone ! 

ALICE.     Surely  those  can  be  spared  her? 

EDWARD.  The  Law's  no  respecter  of  persons  .  .  that's 
its  boast.  Old  Booth,  with  more  than  he  wants,  will  keep 
enough.  My  old  nurse,  with  just  enough, may  starve.  But  it'll 
be  a  relief  to  clear  out  this  nest  of  lies,  even  though  one 
suffers  one's  self.  I've  been  ashamed  to  walk  into  that 
office,  Alice  .  .  I'll  hold  my  head  high  in  prison,  though. 

He  shakes  himself  stiffly  erect,  his  chin  high,    alice 
quizzes  him. 

ALICE.     Edward,  I'm  afraid  you're  feeling  heroic. 

EDWARD.      I ! 


ACT  III]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         75 

ALICE.  Don't  be  so  proud  of  your  misfortune.  You 
looked  quite  like  Booth  for  the  moment.  {This  effectually 
removes  the  starch.'\  It  will  be  very  stupid  to  send  you  to 
prison,  and  you  must  do  your  best  to  keep  out.  [She  goes 
on  very  practically.]  We  were  discussing  if  anything  could 
be  done  for  these  one  or  two  people  who'll  be  beggared. 

EDWARD.  Yes,  Alice.  I'm  sorry  nothing  can  be  done 
for  them. 

ALICE.     It's  a  pity. 

EDWARD.  I  suppose  I  was  feeling  heroic.  I  didn't  mean 
to. 

He  has  become  a  little  like  a  child  with  her. 

ALICE.    That's  the  worst  of  acting  on  principle  .  ,  aoA^ 
begins  thinking  of  one's  attitude  insteadjQf-4iie  use  of  what 
oq^  is  doing. 

EDWiVRD.     I'm  exposing  this  fraud  on  principle. 

ALICE.     Perhaps  that's  what's  wrong. 

EDWARD.     Wrong ! 

ALICE.    My  dear  Edward,  if  people  are  to  be  ruined  .  .  ! 

EDWARD.     What  else  is  there  to  be  done? 

ALICE.     Well  .  .  have  you  thought  ? 

EDWARD.     There's  nothing  else  to  be  done. 

ALICE.     On  principle. 

He  looks  at  her;  she  is  smiling,  it  is  true,  hut  smiling 
quite  gravely,  edward  is  puzzled.  Then  the  yeast 
of  her  suggestion  begins  to  work  in  his  mind  slowly, 
perversely  at  first. 

EDWARD.    It  had  occurred  to  Booth  .  .  . 

ALICE.     Oh,  anything  may  occur  to  Booth. 
'   EDWARD.     ,  .  In  his  grave  concern  for  the  family  hon- 
our that  I  might  quietly  cheat  the  firm  back  into  credit 
again. 

ALICE.     How  stupid  of  Booth ! 

EDWARD.  Well  .  .  like  my  father  .  .  Booth  believes  in 
himself. 


76         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  iii 

ALICE.     Yes,  he's  rather  a  credulous  man. 

EDWARD.  {^Ignoring  her  little  joke.']  He  might  have 
been  lucky,  and  have  done  some  good.  I'm  a  weak  sort  of 
creature — ^just  a  collection  of  principles,  as  you  say.  Look, 
all  Tve  been  able  to  do  in  this  business  .  .  at  the  cost  of 
my  whole  life  perhaps  .  .  has  been  to  sit  senselessly  by  my 
father's  side  and  prevent  things  going  from  bad  to  worse. 

ALICE.  That  was  worth  doing.  The  cost  is  your  own 
affair. 

She  is  watching  him,  stilly  and  closely.    Suddenly 
his  face  lights  a  little,  and  he  turns  to  her. 

EDWARD.    Alice  .  .  there's  something  else  I  could  do. 

ALICE.     What  ? 

EDWARD.     It's  illegal. 

ALICE.  So  much  the  better,  perhaps.  Oh,  I'm  lawless 
by  birthright,  being  a  woman. 

EDWARD.  I  could  take  the  money  that's  in  my  father's 
name,  and  use  it  only  to  put  right  the  smaller  accounts. 
It'd  take  a  few  months  to  do  it  well  .  .  and  cover  the 
tracks,    That'd  be  necessary. 

ALICE.  Then  you'd  give  yourself  up  as  you'd  meant  to 
do  now  ? 

EDWARD.    Yes  .  .  practically. 

ALICE.     It'd  be  worse  for  you  then  at  the  trial? 

EDWARD.  [With  a  touch  of  another  sort  of  pride.]  You 
said  that  was  my  affair. 

ALICE.     [Pain  in  her  voice  and  eyes.]    Oh,  Edward ! 

EDWARD.     Shall  I  do  this? 

ALICE.     [Turning  away.]    Why  must  you  ask  me? 

EDWARD.  You  mocked  at  my  principles,  didn't  you? 
You've  taken  them  from  me.  The  least  you  can  do 
is  to  give  me  advice  in  exchange. 

ALICE.  [After  a  moment.]  No  .  .  decide  for  yourself. 
He  jumps  up,  and  begins  to  pace  about,  doubtful, 
distressed. 


ACT  III]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE        77 

EDWARD.     Good  Lord  .  .  it  means  lying  and  shuffling! 

ALICE.     lA  little  tremhling.']    In  a  good  cause. 

EDWARD.  Ah  .  .  but  lying  and  shuffling  takes  the  fine 
edge  off  one's  soul. 

ALICE.  [^Laughing  at  the  quaintness  of  her  own  little 
epigram.^    Edward,  are  you  one  of  God's  dandies? 

EDWARD.  And  .  .  Alice,  it  wouldn't  be  easy  work.  It 
wants  qualities  I  haven't  got.    I  should  fail. 

ALICE.     Would  you  ? 

He  catches  a  look  from  her. 

EDWARD.     Well,  I  might  not. 

ALICE.  And  you  don't  need  success  for  a  lure.  That's 
like  a  common  man. 

EDWARD.     You  want  me  to  try  to  do  this  ? 

For  answer  she  dares  only  put  out  her  hand,  and  he 
takes  it. 

ALICE.     Oh,  my  dear  .  .  cousin ! 

EDWARD.  [^Excitedly,']  My  people  will  have  to  hold 
their  tongues.    I  needn't  have  told  them  all  this  to-day. 

ALICE.  Don't  tell  them  the  rest  .  .  they  won't  under- 
stand.   I  shall  be  jealous  if  you  tell  them. 

EDWARD.  {^Looking  at  her  as  she  at  him.']  Well,  you've 
the  right  to  be.  This  deed  .  .  it's  not  done  yet  .  .  is  your 
property. 

ALICE.  Thank  you.  I've  always  wanted  to  have  some- 
thing useful  to  my  credit  .  .  and  I'd  almost  given  up 
hoping. 

Then  suddenly  his  face  changes,  his  voice  changes, 
and  he  grips  the  hand  he  is  holding  so  tightly  as  to 
hurt  her. 

EDWARD.  Alice,  if  my  father's"  story  were  true  .  .  he 
must  have  begun  like  this.  Trying  to  do  the  right  thing 
in  the  wrong  way  .  .  then  doing  the  wrong  thing  .  .  then 
bringing  himself  to  what  he  was  .  .  and  so  me  to  this. 
IHe  flings  away  from  her.]    No,  Alice,  I  won't  do  it.    I 


78         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  hi 

daren't  take  that  first  step  down.     It's  a  worse  risk  than 
any  failure.    Think  .  .  I  might  succeed. 

ALICE  stands  very  still,  looking  at  him. 
ALICE.     It's  a  big  risk.    Well  .  .  I'll  take  it. 

He  turns  to  her  in  wonder, 
EDWARD.     You  ? 

ALICE.     I'll  risk  your  becoming  a  bad  man.     That's  a 
big  risk  for  me. 

He  understands,  and  is  calmed  and  made  happy. 
EDWARD.     Then  there  is  no  more  to  be  said,  is  there  ? 
ALICE.     Not  now.     [As  she  drops  this  gentle  hint  she 
hears  something — the  hall  door  opening.'\     Here's 
Booth  back  again. 

EDWARD.     [With  a  really  mischievous  grin.']     He'll  be 
so  glad  he's  convinced  me. 

ALICE.     I  must  go  back  to  Honor,  poor  girl.    I  wonder 
she  has  a  tear  left. 

She  leaves  him  briskly,  brightly;  leaves  her  cousin 
with  his  mouth  set  and  a  light  in  his  eyes. 


ACT  iv]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         79 


THE  FOURTH  ACT 

MR.  voysey's  room  at  the  office  is  edward's  now.  It  has 
somehovu  lost  that  brilliancy  which  the  old  man's 
occupation  seemed  to  give  it.  Perhaps  it  is  only 
because  this  December  morning  is  dull  and  depress- 
ing, but  the  fire  isn't  bright,  and  the  panels  and  win- 
dows don't  shine  as  they  did.  There  are  no  roses 
on  the  table,  either,  edward^  walking  in  as  his 
father  did,  hanging  his  hat  and  coat  where  his 
father's  used  to  hang,  is  certainly  the  palest  shadow 
of  that  other  masterful  presence.  A  depressed, 
drooping  shadow,  too.  This  may  be  what  peacey 
feels,  if  no  more,  for  he  looks  very  surly  as  he  obeys 
the  old  routine  of  following  his  chief  to  this  room  on 
his  arrival.  Nor  has  edward  so  much  as  a  glance 
for  his  clerk.  They  exchange  the  formalest  of  greet- 
ings. EDWARD  sits  joylessly  to  his  desk,  on  which 
the  morning's  pile  of  letters  lies,  unopened  now. 

PEACEY.     Good  morning,  sir. 

EDWARD.  Good  morning,  Peacey.  Have  you  any  notes 
for  me? 

PEACEY.  Well,  IVe  hardly  been  through  the  letters  yet, 
sir. 

EDWARD.  [His  eyebrows  meeting.']  Oh  .  .  and  I'm  half 
an  hour  late  myself  this  morning. 

PEACEY.     I'm  very  sorry,  sir. 

EDWARD.  If  Mr.  Bullen  calls,  you  had  better  show  him 
all  those  papers  I  gave  you.    Write  to  Metcalfe  as  soon  as 


80         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  iv 

possible ;  say  I  interviewed  Mr.  Vickery  myself  this  morn- 
ing, and  the  houses  will  not  be  proceeded  with.  Better  let 
me  see  the  letter. 

PEACEY.     Very  good,  sir. 

EDWARD.     That's  all,  thank  you. 

PEACEY  gets  to  the  door,  where  he  stops,  looking  not 
only  surly  hut  nervous  now. 

PEACEY.     May  I  speak  to  you  a  moment,  sir  ? 

EDWARD.     Certainly. 

PEACEY,  after  a  moment,  makes  an  effort,  purses  his 
mouth,  and  begins. 

PEACEY.  Bills  are  beginning  to  come  in  upon  me  as  is 
usual  at  this  season,  sir.  My  son's  allowance  at  Cambridge 
is  now  rather  a  heavy  item  of  my  expenditure.  I  hope 
that  the  custom  of  the  firm  isn't  to  be  neglected  now  that 
you  are  the  head  of  it,  Mr.  Edward.  Two  hundred  your 
father  always  made  it  at  Christmas  .  .  in  notes,  if  you 
please. 

Towards  the  end  of  this  edward  begins  to  pay  great 
attention.     When  he  answers  his  voice  is  harsh. 

EDWARD.     Oh,  to  be  sure  .  .  your  hush  money. 

PEACEY.     [Bridling.]     That's  not  a  very  pleasant  word. 

EDWARD.     This  is  a  very  unpleasant  subject. 

PEACEY.  I'm  sure  it  isn't  my  wish  to  bring  out  in  cold 
conversation  what  I  know  of  the  firm's  position.  Your 
father  always  gave  me  the  notes  in  an  envelope  when  he 
shook  hands  with  me  at  Christmas. 

EDWARD.  [Blandly.]  And  I've  been  waiting  for  you  to 
ask  me. 

peaceV.  Well,  we'll  say  no  more  about  it.  There's 
always  a  bit  of  friction  in  coming  to  an  understanding 
about  anything,  isn't  there,  sir? 

He  is  going,  when  edward^s  question  stops  him. 

EDWARD.  Why  didn't  you  speak  to  me  about  this  last 
Christmas? 


ACT  iv]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         81 

PEACEY.     I  knew  you  were  upset  at  your  father's  death. 

EDWARD.  No,  no.  My  father  died  the  August  before 
that. 

PEACEY.     Well  .  .  truthfully,  Mr.  Edward? 

EDWARD.    As  truthfully  as  you  think  suitable. 

The  irony  of  this  is  wasted  on  peacey,  who  becomes 
pleasantly  candid. 

PEACEY.  Well,  I  couldn't  make  you  out  last  Christmas. 
I'd  always  thought  there  must  be  a  smash  when  your  father 
died  .  .  but  it  didn't  come.  But  then  again  at  Christmas 
you  seemed  all  on  edge,  and  I  didn't  know  what  might  hap- 
pen.    So  I  thought  I'd  better  keep  quiet  and  say  nothing. 

EDWARD.  I  see.  This  little  pull  of  yours  over  the  firm 
is  an  inheritance  from  your  father,  isn't  it? 

PEACEY.  [Discreetly.']  When  he  retired,  sir,  he  said  to 
me  .  .  I've  told  the  Governor  you  know  what  I  know. 
And  Mr.  Voysey  said  to  me  .  .  *I  treat  you  as  I  did  your 
father,  Peacey.'  I  never  had  another  word  on  the  subject 
with  him. 

EDWARD.  A  very  decent  arrangement.  Your  son's  at 
Cambridge,  you  say,  Peacey? 

PEACEY.     Yes. 

EDWARD.     I  wonder  you  didn't  bring  him  into  the  firm. 

PEACEY.  [Taking  this  very  kind.]  Thank  you,  sir  .  . 
I  thought  of  it.  But  then  I  thought  that  two  generations 
going  in  for  this  sort  of  thing  was  enough. 

EDWARD.     That's  a  matter  of  taste. 

PEACEY.  And  then,  sir  .  .  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your 
feelings,  but  things  simply  cannot  go  on  for  ever.  The 
marvel  to  me  is  that  the  game  has  been  kept  up  as  it  has. 
So  now,  if  he  does  well  at  Cambridge,  I  hope  he'll  go  to 
the  bar.  He  has  a  distinct  talent  for  patiently  applying 
himself  to  the  details  of  a  thing. 

EDWARD.    I  hope  he'll  do  well.     I'm  glad  to  have  had 


82         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  iv 

this  talk  with  you,  Peacey.    I'm  sorry  you  can't  have  the 
money  you  want. 

He  returns  to  his  letters,  a  little  steely-eyed,  peacey, 
quite  at  his  ease,  makes  for  the  door  yet  again,  say- 
ing .  . 

PEACEY.     Oh,  any  time  will  do,  sir. 

EDWARD.     You  can't  have  the  money  at  all, 

PEACEY.     [Brought  up  short.']     Can't  I? 

EDWARD.     [Very  decidedly  indeed.]     No  .  .  I  made  up 

my   mind   about  that   eighteen   months   ago.     Since   my 

father's  death  the  trust  business  of  the  firm  has  not  been 

conducted  as  it  was  formerly.    We  no  longer  make  illicit 

profits  out  of  our  clients.    There  are  none  for  you  to  share. 

Having  thus  given  the  explanation  he  considers  due, 

he  goes  on  with  his  work.    But  peacey  has  flushed 

up. 

peacey.  Look  here,  Mr.  Edward,  I'm  sorry  I  began 
this  discussion.  You'll  give  me  my  two  hundred  as  usual, 
please,  and  we'll  drop  the  subject. 

EDWARD.     By  all  means  drop  the  subject. 

peacey.  [His  voice  rising  sharply.]  I  want  the  money. 
I  think  it  is  not  gentlemanly  in  you,  Mr.  Edward,  to  make 
these  excuses  to  try  to  get  out  of  paying  it  me.  Your 
father  would  never  have  made  such  an  excuse. 

EDWARD.  [Flabbergasted.]  Do  you  think  I'm  lying  to 
you? 

peacey.  [With  a  deprecating  swallow.]  I  don't  wish 
to  criticise  your  statements  or  your  actions  at  all,  sir.  It 
was  no  concern  of  mine  how  your  father  treated  his 
clients. 

EDWARD.  I  understand.  And  now  it's  no  concern  of 
yours  how  honest  I  am.  You  want  your  money  just  the 
same. 

PEACEY.  Well,  don't  be  sarcastic  .  .  a  man  does  get 
used  to  a  state  of  affairs  whatever  it  may  be. 


ACT  iv]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         83 

EDWARD.  [With  considerable  force.']  My  friend,  if  I 
drop  sarcasm  I  shall  have  to  tell  you  very  candidly  what  I 
think  of  you. 

PEACEY.  That  I'm  a  thief  because  I've  taken  money 
from  a  thief! 

EDWARD.  Worse  than  a  thief.  You're  content  that 
other^^^U'LllJnfliill  ToL-^j^guT 

PEACEY.    Aa^'^wiltn^'t  ? 

EDWARD  is  really  pleased  with  the  aptness  of  this! 
He  at  once  changes  his  tone,  which  indeed  had 
become  rather  bullying. 

EDWARD.  Ah,  Peacey,  I  perceive  that  you  study  soci- 
ology. Well,  that's  too  big  a  question  to  enter  into  now. 
The  application  of  the  present  portion  of  it  is  that  I  have 
for  the  moment,  at  some  inconvenience  to  myself,  ceased 
to  receive  stolen  goods  and  therefore  am  in  a  position  to 
throw  a  stone  at  you.    I  have  thrown  it. 

PEACEY,  who  would  far  sooner  be  bullied  than 
talked  to  like  this,  turns  very  sulky. 

PEACEY.    And  now  I'm  to  leave  the  firm,  I  suppose? 

EDWARD.     Not  unless  you  wish. 

PEACEY.     I  happen  to  think  the  secret's  worth  its  price. 

EDWARD.     Perhaps  someone  will  pay  it  you. 

PEACEY.  {Feebly  threatening.']  You're  presuming  upon 
its  not  being  worth  my  while  to  make  use  of  what  I  know. 

EDWARD.  [Not  unkindly.]  My  good  Peacey,  it  happens 
to  be  the  truth  I  told  you  just  now.  Well,  how  on  earth 
do  you  suppose  you  can  successfully  blackmail  a  man,  who 
has  so  much  to  gain  by  exposure  and  so  little  to  lose  as  I  ? 

PEACEY.  [Peeving.]  I  don't  want  to  ruin  you,  sir,  and 
I  have  a  great  regard  for  the  firm  .  .  but  you  must  see 
that  I  can't  have  my  income  reduced  in  this  way  without 
a  struggle. 

EDWARD.  {With  great  cheerfulness.]  Very  well,  my 
friend,  struggle  away. 


84        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  rv 

PEACEY.  [His  voice  rising  high  and  thin.']  For  one 
thing,  sir,  I  don't  think  it  fair  dealing  on  your  part  to  dock 
the  money  suddenly.  I  have  been  counting  on  it  most  of 
the  year,  and  I  have  been  led  into  heavy  expenses.  Why 
couldn't  you  have  warned  me? 

EDWARD.  That's  true,  Peacey,  it  was  stupid  of  me.  I 
apologise  for  the  mistake. 

PEACEY  is  a  little  comforted  by  this  quite  candid 
acknowledgment. 

PEACEY.  Perhaps  things  may  be  easier  for  you  by  next 
Christmas. 

EDWARD.      I  hope   so. 

PEACEY.  Then  .  .  perhaps  you  won't  be  so  particular. 
At  this  gentle  insinuation  edward  looks  up  exasper- 
ated. 

EDWARD.     So  you  don't  believe  what  I  told  you? 

PEACEY.    Yes,  I  do. 

EDWARD.  Then  you  think  that  the  fascination  of  swin- 
dling one's  clients  will  ultimately  prove  irresistible? 

PEACEY.  It's  what  happened  to  your  father,  I  suppose 
you  know. 

This  gives  edward  such  pause  that  he  drops  his 
masterful  tone. 

EDWARD.     I  didn't. 

PEACEY.     He  got  things  as  right  as  rain  once. 

EDWARD,     Did  he? 

PEACEY.     .  .  My  father  told  me.    Then  he  started  again. 

EDWARD.     But  how  did  you  find  that  out  ? 

PEACEY.  {Expanding  pleasantly.]  Well,  being  so  long 
in  his  service,  I  grew  to  understand  your  father.  But 
when  I  first  came  into  the  firm,  I  simply  hated  him.  He 
was  that  sour ;  so  snappy  with  everyone  .  .  as  if  he  had  a 
grievance  against  the  whole  world. 

EDWARD.     IPensively.']     It  seems  he  had  in  those  days. 

PEACEY.    Well,  as  I  said,  his  dealings  with  his  clients 


ACT  iv]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         85 

were  no  business  of  mine.  And  I  speak  as  I  find.  He 
was  very  kind  to  me  .  .  always  thoughtful  and  considerate. 
He  grew  to  be  so  pleasant  and  generous  to  everyone 

EDWARD.    That  you  have  great  hopes  of  me  yet? 

PEACEY.  [Who  has  a  simple  mind.']  No,  Mr.  Edward, 
no.  You're  different  from  your  father  .  .  one  must  make 
up  one's  mind  to  that.  And  you  may  believe  me  or  not 
but  I  should  be  very  glad  to  know  that  the  firm  was  solvent 
and  going  straight.  There  have  been  times  when  I  have 
sincerely  regretted  my  connection  with  it.  H  you'll  let 
me  say  so,  I  think  it's  very  noble  of  you  to  have  undertaken 
the  work  you  have.  [Then,  as  everything  seems  smooth 
again.']  And  Mr.  Edward,  if  you'll  give  me  enough  to 
cover  this  year's  extra  expense  I  think  I  may  promise  you 
that  I  shan't  expect  money  again. 

EDWARD.  [Good-tempered,  as  he  would  speak  to  an 
importunate  child.]     No,  Peacey,  no ! 

PEACEY.  [Fretful  again.]  Well,  sir,  you  make  things 
very  difficult  for  me. 

EDWARD.  Here's  a  letter  from  Mr.  Cartwright  which 
you  might  attend  to.  If  he  wants  an  appointment  with  me, 
don't  make  one  till  the  New  Year.  His  case  can't  come 
on  before  February. 

PEACEY.  [Taking  the  letter.]  I  am  anxious  to  meet  you 
in  every  way [He  is  handed  another."] 

EDWARD.  "Perceval  Building  Estate"  .  .  that's  yours, 
too. 

PEACEY.  [Putting  them  both  down  resolutely.]  But  I 
refuse  to  be  ignored.  I  must  consider  my  whole  position. 
I  hope  I  may  not  be  tempted  to  make  use  of  the  power  I 
possess.    But  if  I  am  driven  to  proceed  to  extremities  .  . 

EDWARD.  [Breaking  in  upon  this  bunch  of  tags.]  My 
dear  Peacey,  don't  talk  nonsense  .  .  you  couldn't  proceed 
to  an  extremity  to  save  your  life.  You've  taken  this  money 
irresponsibly  for  all  these  years.     You'll  find  you're  no 


86         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  iv 

longer  capable  even  of  such  a  responsible  act  as  tripping 
up  your  neighbour. 

This  does  completely  upset  the  gentle  blackmailer. 
He  loses  one  grievance  in  another. 

PEACEY.     Really,  Mr.  Edward,  I  am  a  considerably  older 
man  than  you,  and  I  think  that  whatever  our  positions 

EDWARD.     Don't    let   us    argue,    Peacey.      You're    quite 
at  liberty  to  do  whatever  you  think  worth  while. 

PEACEY.     It  isn't  that,  sir.     But  these  personalities 

EDWARD.     Oh  .  .  I  apologise.     Don't  forget  the  letters. 

PEACEY.     I  will  not,  sir. 

He  takes  them  with  great  dignity,  and  is  leaving  the 
room. 

PEACEY.    Here's  Mr.  Hugh,  waiting. 

EDWARD.    To  see  me?    Ask  him  in. 

PEACEY.     Come  in,  Mr.  Hugh,  please. 

HUGH  comes  in,  peacey  holding  the  door  for  him 
with  a  frigid  politeness  of  which  he  is  quite  oblivi- 
ous. At  this  final  slight  peacey  goes  out  in  dudgeon. 

EDWARD.    How  are  you,  Hugh? 

HUGH.    Good  Lord! 

And  he  throws  himself  into  the  chair  by  the  fire. 
EDWARD,  quite  used  to  this  sort  of  thing,  goes  quietly 
on  with  his  work,  adding,  encouragingly,  after  a 
moment  .  . 

EDWARD.    How's  Beatrice? 

HUGH.     She's  very  busy. 

He  studies  his  boots  with  the  gloomiest  expression. 
And  indeed,  they  are  very  dirty,  and  his  turned-up 
trousers  are  muddy  at  the  edge.  They  are  dark 
trousers,  and  well  cut,  but  he  wears  with  them  a  loose 
coat  and  waistcoat  of  a  peculiar  light  brown  check. 
Add  to  this  the  roughest  of  overcoats  and  a  very  soft 
hat.  Add  also  the  fact  that  he  doesn't  shave  well  or 
regularly,   and    that   his  hair  wants   cutting,   and 


ACT  iv]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         87 

Hugh's  appearance  this  morning  is  described.  As  he 
is  quite  capable  of  sitting  silently  By  the  fire  for  a 
whole  morning,  edward  asks  him  at  last  .  . 

EDWARD.    What  d'you  want? 

HUGH.  [With  vehemence.']  I  want  a  machine  gun 
planted  in  Regent  Street  .  .  and  one  in  the  Haymarket  .  . 
and  one  in  Leicester  Square  and  one  in  the  Strand  .  .  and 
a  dozen  in  the  City.  An  earthquake  would  be  simpler.  Or 
why  not  a  nice  clean  tidal  wave?  It's  no  good  preaching 
and  patching  up  any  longer,  Edward.  We  must  begin 
afresh.  Don't  you  feel,  even  in  your  calmer  moments, 
that  this  whole  country  is  simply  hideous?  The  other 
nations  must  look  after  themselves.  Tm  patriotic  .  .  I 
only  ask  that  we  should  be  destroyed. 

EDWARD.    It  has  been  promised. 

HUGH.  I'm  sick  of  waiting.  [Then  as  edv/ard  says 
nothing.]  You  say  this  is  the  cry  just  of  the  weak  man  in 
despair !  I  wouldn't  be  anything  but  a  weak  man  in  this 
world.  I  wouldn't  be  a  king,  I  wouldn't  be  rich  .  .  I 
wouldn't  be  a  Borough  Councillor  .  .  I  should  be  so 
ashamed.  I've  walked  here  this  morning  from  Hamp- 
stead.  I  started  to  curse  because  the  streets  were  dirty. 
You'd  think  that  an  Empire  could  keep  its  streets  clean ! 
But  then  I  saw  that  the  children  were  dirty,  too. 

EDWARD.     That's  because  of  the  streets. 

HUGH.  Yes,  it's  holiday  time.  Those  that  can  cross  a 
road  safely  are  doing  some  work  now  .  .  earning  some 
money.  You'd  think  a  governing  race,  grabbing  responsi- 
bilities, might  care  for  its  children. 

EDWARD.  Come,  we  educate  them  now.  And  I  don't 
think  many  work  in  holiday  time. 

HUGH.  [Encouraged  by  contradiction.]  We  teach  them 
all  that  we're  not  ashamed  of  .  .  and  much  that  we  ought 
to  be  .  .  and  the  rest  they  find  out  for  themselves.  Oh, 
every  man  and  woman  I  met  was  muddy-eyed!     They'd 


88        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  iv 

joined  the  great  conspiracy  which  we  call  our  civilization. 
They've  been  educated !  They  believe  in  the  Laws  and  the 
Money-market  and  Respectability.  Well,  at  least  they 
suffer  for  their  beliefs.  But  I'm  glad  I  don't  make  the  laws 
.  .  and  that  I  haven't  any  money  .  .  and  that  I  hate  re- 
spectability .  .  or  I  should  be  so  ashamed.  By  the  bye, 
that's  what  I've  come  for. 

EDWARD.  [Pleasantly. ']  What?  I  thought  you'd  only 
come  to  talk. 

HUGH.  You  must  take  that  money  of  mine  for  your 
clients.  Of  course  you  ought  to  have  had  it  when  you 
asked  for  it.  It  has  never  belonged  to  me.  Well  .  .  it  has 
never  done  me  any  good.  I  have  never  made  any  use  of  it, 
and  so  it  has  been  just  a  clog  to  my  life. 

EDWARD.  \_Surprised.'\  My  dear  Hugh  .  .  this  is  very 
generous  of  you. 

HUGH.     Not  a  bit.    I  only  want  to  start  fresh  and  free. 

EDWARD.  ISitting  back  from  his  work.']  Hugh,  do  you 
really  think  that  money  has  carried  a  curse  with  it? 

HUGH.  [With  great  violence.']  Think!  I'm  the  proof 
of  it,  and  look  at  me.  When  I  said  I'd  be  an  artist  the 
Governor  gave  me  a  hundred  and  fifty  a  year  .  .  the  rent 
of  a  studio  and  the  price  of  a  velvet  coat  he  thought  it; 
that  was  all  he  knew  about  Art.  Then  my  respectable  train- 
ing got  me  engaged  and  married.  Marriage  in  a  studio 
puzzled  the  Governor,  so  he  guessed  it  at  two  hundred  and 
fifty  a  year  .  .  and  looked  for  lay  figure-babies,  I  suppose. 
What  had  I  to  do  with  Art?  Nothing  Fve  done  yet  but 
reflects  our  drawing-room  at  Chislehurst. 

EDWARD.  [Considering.]  Yes  .  .  What  do  you  earn  in 
a  year?    I  doubt  if  you  can  afford  to  give  this  up. 

HUGH.  Oh,  Edward  .  .  you  clank  the  chain  with  the 
best  of  them.  That  word  Afford !  I  want  to  be  free  from 
my  advantages.    Don't  you  see  I  niust  find  out  what  I'm 


ACT  iv]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE        89 

worth  in  m  y  s  e  I  f  .  .  whether  I  even  exist  or  not  ?  Per- 
haps Fm  only  a  pretence  of  a  man  animated  by  an  income. 

EDWARD.  But  you  Can't  return  to  nature  on  the  London 
pavements. 

HUGH.  No.  Nor  in  England  at  all  .  .  it's  nothing  but  a 
big  back  garden.  {Now  he  collects  himself  for  a  final  out- 
hurst.']  But  if  there's  no  place  on  this  earth  where  a  man 
can  prove  his  right  to  live  by  some  other  means  than  rob- 
bing his  neighbour  .  .  I'd  better  go  and  request  the  next 
horse  I  meet  to  ride  me  .  .  to  the  nearest  lunatic  asylum. 
EDWARD  waits  till  the  effects  of  this  explosion  are 
over. 

EDWARD.  And  what  does  Beatrice  say  to  your  emigrat- 
ing to  the  backwoods  .  .  if  that  is  exactly  what  you  mean? 

HUGH.     Now  that  we're  separating 

EDWARD.     [Taken  aback.]     What? 

HUGH.    We  mean  to  separate. 

EDWARD.     This  is  the  first  I've  heard  of  it. 

HUGH.  Beatrice  is  making  some  money  by  her  books, 
so  it  has  become  possible. 

EDWARD.     [Humorously.]    Have  you  told  anyone  yet? 

HUGH.  We  mean  to  now.  I  think  a  thing  comes  to 
pass  quicker  in  public. 

EDWARD.     Say  nothing  at  home  until  after  Christmas. 

HUGH.  Oh,  Lord,  I  forgot !  They'll  discuss  it  solemnly. 
[Then  he  whistles.]    Emily  knows  ! 

EDWARD.  [Having  considered.]  I  shan't  accept  this 
money  from  you  .  .  there's  no  need.  All  the  good  has 
been  done  that  I  wanted  to  do.  No  one  will  be  beggared 
now.    So  why  should  you  be  ? 

HUGH.  [With  clumsy  affection.]  We've  taken  a  fine 
lot  of  interest  in  your  labours,  haven't  we,  Hercules? 

EDWARD.  You  hold  your  tongue  about  the  office  affairs, 
don't  you?    It's  not  safe. 

HUGH.     When  will  you  be  quit  of  the  beastly  business? 


/ 


90        THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  iv 

EDWARD.  \Becommg  reserved  and  cold  at  once.']  Vm  in 
no  hurry. 

HUGH.     What  do  you  gain  by  hanging  on  now? 

EDWARD.     Occupation. 

HUGH.  But,  Edward,  it  must  be  an  awfully  wearying 
state  of  things.  I  suppose  any  moment  a  policeman  may 
knock  at  the  door  .  .  so  to  speak? 

EDWARD.  [Appreciating  the  figure  of  speech.']  Any 
moment.  I  take  no  precautions.  I  suppose  that's  why 
he  doesn't  come.  At  first  I  listened  for  him,  day  by  day. 
Then  I  said  to  myself  .  .  next  week.  But  a  year  has 
gone  by  and  more.  I've  ceased  expecting  to  hear  the 
knock  at  all. 

HUGH.     But  look  here  .  .  is  all  this  worth  while? 

EDWARD.  [Supremely  ironical.']  My  dear  Hugh,  what 
a  silly  question  I 

HUGH.  [Very  seriously.]  But  have  you  the  right  to 
make  a  mean  thing  of  your  life  like  this? 

EDWARD.     Does  my  life  matter? 

HUGH.     Well  .  .  of  course ! 

EDWARD.  I  find  no  evidence  to  convince  me  of  it.  The 
/World  that  you  talk  about  so  finely  is  using  me  up.  A 
/  little  wantonly  .  .  a  little  needlessly,  I  do  think.  But  she 
I  knows  her  own  damn  business  .  .  or  so  she  says,  if  you 
I  try  to  teach  it  her.  And  why  should  I  trouble  to  fit  myself 
for  better  work  than  she  has  given  me  to  do  .  .  nursing 
fools'  money? 

HUGH.  [Responding  at  once  to  this  vein.]  Edward,  we 
must  turn  this  world  upside  down.  It's  her  stupidity  that 
drives  me  mad.  We  all  want  a  lesson  in  values.  We're 
never  taught  what  is  worth  having  and  what  isn't.  Why 
should  your  real  happiness  be  sacrificed  to  the  sham 
happiness  which  people  have  invested  in  the  firm  ? 

EDWARD.  I  suppose  their  money  means  such  happiness 
to  them  as  they  understand. 


ACT  iv]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         91 

HUGH.  Then  we  want  another  currency.  We  must 
learn  to  express  ourselves  in  terms  of  vitality.  There  can 
1be~no  other  standard  of  worth  in  life,  can  there?  I  never 
believed  that  money  was  valuable.  I  remember  once  giv- 
ing a  crossing  sweeper  a  sovereign.  The  sovereign  was 
nothing.  But  the  sensation  I  gave  him  was  an  intrinsically 
valuable  thing. 

He  is  fearfully  pleased  with  his  essay  in  philosophy. 

EDWARD.  He  could  buy  other  sensations  with  the  sov- 
ereign. 

HUGH.  But  none  like  the  first.  IThen  the  realities  of 
life  overwhelm  him  again.']  And  yet  .  .  we're  slaves ! 
Beatrice  won't  let  me  go  until  we're  each  certain  of  two 
hundred  a  year.  And  she's  quite  right  .  .  I  should  only 
get  into  debt.  You  know  that  two  fifty  a  year  of  mine  is 
a  hundred  and  eighty  now. 

EDWARD.  [Mischievous.']  Why  would  you  invest  sen- 
sationally ? 

HUGH.  [With  great  seriousness.]  I  put  money  into 
things  which  I  know  ought  to  succeed  .  . 

The  telephone  rings,    edward  speaks  through  it. 

EDWARD.  Certainly  .  .  bring  him  in.  [Then  to  his 
brother,  who  sits  on  the  table  idly  disarranging  every- 
thing.]    You'll  have  to  go  now,  Hugh. 

HUGH.  [Shaking  his  head  gloomily.]  You're  one  of 
the  few  people  I  can  talk  to,  Edward. 

EDWARD.     I  like  listening.  * 

HUGH.  [As  much  cheered  as  surprised.]  Do  you !  I 
suppose  I  talk  a  lot  of  rot  .  .  but  .  . 

In  comes  old  mr.  george  booth^  older  too  in  looks 
than  he  zvas  eighteen  months  back.  Very  dandyishly 
dressed,  he  still  seems  by  no  means  so  happy  as  his 
clothes  might  be  making  him. 

MR.  BOOTH.  'Ullo,  Hugh !  I  thought  I  should  find  you, 
Edward, 


92         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  iv 

EDWARD.     [Formally.']     Good  morning,  Mr.  Booth. 
HUGH.     [As  he  collects  his  hat,  his  coat,  his  various 
properties.']     Well  .  .  Beatrice  and  I  go  down  to  Chisle- 
hurst  to-morrow.     I  say  .  .  d'you  know  that  old  Nursie 
is  furious  with  you  about  something? 
EDWARD,     IShortly.]    Yes,  I  know.    Good-bye. 
HUGH.    How  are  you? 

He  launches  this  enquiry  at  mr.  booth  with  great 
suddenness  just  as  he  leaves  the  room.  The  old 
gentleman  jumps;  then  jumps  again  at  the  slam  of 
the  door.  And  then  he  frowns  at  edward  in  a 
frightened  sort  of  way. 
EDWARD.  Will  you  come  here  .  .  or  will  you  sit  by 
the  fire? 

MR.  booth.    This'll  do.    I  shan't  detain  you  long. 

He  take  the  chair  by  the  table  and  occupies  the  next 
minute  or  two  carefully  disposing  of  his  hat  and 
gloves. 
EDWARD.    Are  you  feeling  all  right  again? 
MR.  BOOTH.    A  bit  dyspeptic.    How  are  you? 
EDWARD.     Quite  well,  thanks. 

MR.  BOOTH.  I'm  glad  .  .  I'm  glad.  [He  now  proceeds 
to  cough  a  little,  hesitating  painfully.]  I'm  afraid  this 
isn't  very  pleasant  business  I've  come  upon. 

EDWARD.     D'you  want  to  go  to  Law  with  anyone? 
MR.   BOOTH.    No  .  .  oh,   no.     I'm   getting   too  old   to 
quarrel. 
EDWARD.    A  pleasant  symptom. 

MR.  BOOTH.  [With  a  final  effort.]  I  mean  to  withdraw 
my  securities  from  the  custody  of  your  firm  .  .  [and  he 
adds  apologetically]  with  the  usual  notice,  of  course. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  what  edward  feels 
at  this  moment.  Perhaps  something  of  the  shock 
that  the  relief  of  death  may  be  as  an  end  to  pain  so 


ACT  iv]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         93 

long  endured  that  it  has  been  half  forgotten.  He 
answers  very  quietly,  without  a  sign  of  emotion. 

EDWARD.     Thank  you  .  .  May  one  ask  why? 

MR.  BOOTH.  [Relieved  that  the  worst  is  over."]  Certain- 
ly .  .  certainly.  My  reason  is  straightforward  and  simple 
and  well  considered.  I  think  you  must  know,  Edward,  I 
have  never  been  able  to  feel  that  implicit  confidence  in 
your  ability  which  I  had  in  your  father's.  Well,  it  is 
hardly  to  be  expected,  is  it? 

EDWARD.     [With  a  grim  smile.']     No. 

MR.  BOOTH.  I  can  say  that  without  unduly  depreciating 
you.  Men  like  your  father  are  few  and  far  between.  As 
far  as  I  know,  things  proceed  at  this  office  as  they  have 
always  done,  but  .  .  since  his  death  I  have  not  been  happy 
about  my  affairs. 

EDWARD.  [Speaking  as  it  is  his  duty  to.]  I  think  you 
need  be  under  no  apprehension  .  . 

MR.  BOOTH.  I  daresay  not.  But  that  isn't  the  point. 
Now,  for  the  first  time  in  my  long  life,  I  am  worried  about 
money  affairs ;  and-  I  don't  like  the  f eeHng.  The  posses- 
sion of  money  has  always  been  a  pleasure  to  me  .  .  and 
for  what  are  perhaps  my  last  years  I  don't  wish  that  to  be 
otherwise.  You.  must  remember  you  have  practically  my 
entire  property  unreservedly  in  your  control. 

EDWARD.  Perhaps  we  can  arrange  to  hand  you  over  the 
reins'  to  an  extent  which  will  ease  your  mind,  and  at  the 
same  time  not  .  . 

MR.  BOOTH.  I  thought  of  that.  Believe  me,  I  have  every 
wish  not  to  slight  unduly  your  father's  son.  I  have  not 
moved  in  the  matter  for  eighteen  months.  I  have  not  been 
able  to  make  up  my  mind  to.  Really,  one  feels  a  Httle  help- 
less .  .  and  the  transaction  of  business  requires  more  en- 
ergy than  .  .  But  I  saw  my  doctor  yesterday,  Edward,  and 
he  told  me  .  .  well,  it  was  a  warning.  And  so  I  felt  it  my 
duty  at  once  to  .  .  especially  as  I  made  up  my  mind  to  it 


94         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  iv 

some  time  ago.  [He  comes  to  the  end  of  this  havering  at 
last,  and  adds."]  In  point  of  fact,  Edward,  more  than  a  year 
before  your  father  died  I  had  quite  decided  that  my  affairs 
could  never  be  with  you  as  they  were  with  him. 

EDWARD  starts  almost  out  of  his  chair,  his  face  pale, 
his  eyes  black. 

EDWARD.     Did  h  e  know  that  ? 

MR.  BOOTH.  \_Resenting  this  new  attitude.']  I  think  I 
never  said  it  in  so  many  words.  But  he  may  easily  have 
guessed. 

EDWARD.  [As  he  relaxes,  and  turns,  almost  shuddering, 
from  the  possibility  of  dreadful  knowledge.']  No  .  ,  no  .  . 
he  never  guessed.  [Then  with  a  sudden  fresh  impulse.]  I 
hope  you  won't  do  this,  Mr.  Booth. 

MR.  BOOTH.     I  have  quite  made  up  my  mind. 

EDWARD.     You  must  let  me  persuade  you 

MR.  BOOTH.  [Conciliatory.]  I  shall  make  a  point  of  in- 
forming your  family  that  you  are  in  no  way  to  blame  in 
the  matter.  And  in  the  event  of  any  personal  legal  diffi- 
culties I  shall  always  be  delighted  to  come  to  you.  My  idea 
is  for  the  future  to  employ  merely  a  financial  agent 

EDWARD.  [Still  quite  unstrung  really,  and  his  nerves  be- 
traying him.]  If  you  had  made  up  your  mind  before  my 
father  died  to  do  this,  you  ought  to  have  told  h  i  m. 

MR.  BOOTH.  Please  allow  me  to  know  my  own  business 
best.    I  did  not  choose  to  distress  him  by 

EDWARD,  [Pulling  himself  together:  speaking  half  to 
himself.]  Well  .  .  well  .  .  this  is  one  way  out.  And  it's 
not  my  fault. 

MR.  BOOTH.  You're  making  a  fearful  fuss  about  a  very 
simple  matter,  Edward.  The  loss  of  one  client,  however 
important  he  may  be  .  .  Why,  this  is  one  of  the  best  fam- 
ily practices  in  London.  I  am  surprised  at  your  lack  of 
dignity. 

EDWARD  yields  smilingly  to  this  assertiveness. 


ACT  iv]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         95 

EDWARD.  True  .  .  I  have  no  dignity.  Will  you  walk 
off  with  your  papers  now? 

MR.  BOOTH.     What  notice  is  usual? 

EDWARD.  To  a  good  solicitor,  five  minutes.  Ten  to  a 
poor  one. 

MR.  BOOTH.  You'll  havc  to  explain  matters  a  bit  to  me. 
Now  EDWARD  settles  to  his  desk  again;  really  with  a 
certain  grim  enjoyment  of  the  prospect. 

EDWARD.  Yes,  I  had  better.  Well,  Mr.  Booth,  how 
much  do  you  think  you're  worth  ? 

MR.  BOOTH.     [^Easily.']    I  couldn't  say  off  hand. 

EDWARD.     But  you've  a  rough  idea? 

MR.  BOOTH.     To  be  sure. 

EDWARD.     You'll  get  not  quite  half  that  out  of  us. 

MR.  BOOTH.  {^Precisely.']  I  think  I  said  I  had  made  up 
my  mind  to  withdraw  the  whole  amount. 

EDWARD.     You  should  havc  made  up  your  mind  sooner. 

MR.  BOOTH.     I  don't  in  the  least  understand  you,  Edward. 

EDWARD.     A  great  part  of  your  capital  doesn't  exist. 

MR.  BOOTH.  [With  some  irritdtion.l  Nonsense!  It  must 
exist.  [He  scans  edward's  set  face  in  vain.']  You  mean 
that  it  won't  be  prudent  to  realise  ?  You  can  hand  over  the 
securities.    I  don't  want  to  reinvest  simply  because 

EDWARD.     I  can't  hand  over  what  I  haven't  got. 

This  sentence  falls  on  the  old  man's  ears  like  a  knell. 

MR.  BOOTH.     Is  anything  .  .  wrong? 

EDWARD.  [Grim  and  patient.]  How  many  more  times 
am  I  to  say  that  we  have  robbed  you  of  nearly  half  your 
property  ? 

MR.  BOOTH.     [His  senses  failing  him.]    Say  that  again. 

EDWARD.     It's  quite  true. 

MR.  BOOTH.     My  money  .  .  gone? 

EDWARD.     Yes. 

MR.  BOOTH.  [Clutching  at  a  straw  of  anger.]  You've 
been  the  thief  .  •  you  .  .  you  .  .  ? 


96         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  iv 

EDWARD.  I  wouldn't  tell  you  if  I  could  help  it  .  .  my 
father. 

That  actually  calls  the  old  man  back  to  something 
like  dignity  and  self-possession.  He  thumps  on 
Edward's  table  furiously. 

MR.  BOOTH.    I'll  make  you  prove  that. 

And  now  edward  buries  his  face  in  his  arms  and 
just  goes  off  into  hysterics. 

EDWARD.     Oh,  you've  fired  a  mine ! 

MR.  BOOTH.  [Scolding  him  well.']  Slandering  your  dead 
father  .  .  and  lying  to  me,  revenging  yourself  by  frighten- 
ing me  .  .  because  I  detest  you. 

EDWARD.  Why  .  .  haven't  I  thanked  you  for  putting  an 
end  to  all  my  troubles  ?    I  do  .  .  I  promise  you  I  do. 

MR.  BOOTH.  [^Shouting,  and  his  sudden  courage  failing 
as  he  shouts."]  Prove  this  .  .  prove  it  to  me !  I'm  not  to 
be  frightened  so  easily.  One  can't  lose  half  of  all  one  has 
and  then  be  told  of  it  in  two  minutes  .  .  sitting  at  a  table. 
\His  voice  falls  off  to  a  piteous  whimper.] 

EDWARD.  {^Quietly  now,  and  kindly.]  If  my  father  had 
told  you  this  in  plain  words  you'd  have  believed  him. 

MR.  BOOTH.     [Bowing  his  head.]    Yes. 

EDWARD  looks  at  the  poor  old  thing  with  great  pity. 

EDWARD.  What  on  earth  did  you  want  to  withdraw  your 
account  for?  You  need  never  have  known  .  .  you  could 
have  died  happy.  Settling  with  all  those  charities  in  your 
will  would  certainly  have  smashed  us  up.  But  proving 
your  will  is  many  years  off  yet,  we'll  hope. 

MR.  BOOTH.  [Pathetic  and  bewildered.]  I  don't  under- 
stand. No,  I  don't  understand  .  .  because  your  father  .  . 
But  I  m  u  s  t  understand,  Edward. 

EDWARD.  Don't  shock  yourself  trying  to  understand  my 
father,  for  you  never  will.  Pull  yourself  together,  Mr. 
Booth.    After  all,  this  isn't  a  vital  matter  to  you.     It's 


ACT  IV]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE         97 

not  even  as  if  you  had  a  family  to  consider  .  .  like  some 
of  the  others. 

MR.  BOOTH.     [Vaguely.']     What  others? 

EDWARD.  Don't  imagine  your  money  has  been  specially 
selected  for  pilfering. 

MR.  BOOTH.  [With  solemn  incredulity.']  One  has  read 
of  this  sort  of  thing,  but  .  .  I  thought  people  always  got 
found  out. 

EDWARD.  [Brutally  humorous.]  Well  .  .  we  are  found 
out.    YouVe  found  us  out. 

MR.  BOOTH.  [Rising  to  the  full  appreciation  of  his 
wrongs.]    Oh  .  .  IVe  been  foully  cheated ! 

EDWARD.     [Patiently.]    IVe  told  you  so. 

MR.  BOOTH.  [His  voice  breaks,  he  appeals  pitifully.] 
But  by  you,  Edward  .  .  say  it's  by  you. 

EDWARD.     [Unable  to  resist  his  quiet  revenge.]    I've  not 

the  ability  or  the  personality  for  such  work,  Mr.  Booth  .  . 

nothing  but  principles,  which  forbid  me  even  to  lie  to  you. 

The  old  gentleman  draws  a  long  breath,  and  then 

speaks  with  great  awe,  blending  into  grief. 

MR.  BOOTH.  I  think  your  father  is  in  Hell  .  .  I'd  have 
gone  there  myself  to  save  him  from  it.  I  loved  him  very 
truly.  How  he  could  have  had  the  heart!  We  were 
friends  for  nearly  fifty  years.  Am  I  to  think  now  he  only 
cared  for  me  to  cheat  me? 

EDWARD.  [Venturing  the  comfort  of  an  explanation.] 
No  .  .  he  didn't  value  money  as  you  do. 

MR.  BOOTH.  [With  sudden  shrill  logic]  But  he  took  it. 
What  d'you  mean  by  that  ? 

EDWARD  leans  back  in  his  chair  and  changes  the 
tenor  of  their  talk. 

EDWARD.  Well,  you're  master  of  the  situation  now. 
What  are  you  going  to  do? 

MR.  BOOTH.    To  get  my  money  back, 

EDWARD.    No,  that's  ^one. 


98         THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  iv 

MR.  BOOTH.     Then  give  me  what's  left,  and 

EDWARD.     Are  you  going  to  prosecute? 

MR.  BOOTH.  [Shifting  uneasily  in  his  chair.']  Oh,  dear 
.  .  is  that  necessary?  Can't  somebody  else  do  that?  I 
thought  the  Law 

EDWARD.     You  need  not  prosecute,  you  know. 

MR.  BOOTH.     What'll  happen  if  I  don't? 

EDWARD.     What  do  you  suppose  I'm  doing  here  now? 

MR.  BOOTH.  [As  if  he  were  being  asked  a  riddle.']  I 
don't  know. 

EDWARD.  [Earnestly.]  I'm  trying  to  straighten  things 
a  little.  Fm  trying  to  undo  what  my  father  did  .  .  to  do 
again  what  he  undid.  It's  a  poor,  dull  sort  of  work  now  .  . 
throwing  penny  after  penny,  hardly  earned,  into  the  pit  of 
our  deficit.  But  I've  been  doing  that  for  what  it's  worth, 
in  the  time  that  was  left  to  me  .  .  till  this  should  happen. 
I  never  thought  you'd  bring  it  to  pass.  I  can  continue  to 
do  that,  if  you  choose  .  .  until  the  next  smash  comes.  I'm 
pleased  to  call  this  my  duty.  [He  searches  mr.  booth's 
face,  and  finds  there  only  disbelief  and  fear.  He  bursts 
out.]  Oh,  why  won't  you  believe  me?  It  can't  hurt  you 
to  believe  it. 

MR.  BOOTH.  You  must  admit,  Edward,  it  isn't  easy  to 
believe  anything  in  this  office  .  .  just  for  the  moment. 

EDWARD.  [Bowing  to  the  extreme  reasonableness  of 
this.]  I  suppose  not.  I  can  prove  it  to  you.  I'll  take  you 
through  the  books  .  .  you  won't  understand  them  .  .  but 
I  could  prove  it. 

MR.  BOOTH.  I  think  I'd  rather  not.  D'you  think  I  ought 
to  hold  any  further  ccmmunication  with  you  at  all?  [And 
at  this  he  takes  his  hat,] 

EDWARD.  [WitJi  a  little  explosion  of  contemptuous  an- 
ger.]    Certainly  not.    Prosecute  .  .  prosecute ! 

MR.  BOOTH.  [With  dignity.]  Don't  lose  your  temper. 
You  know  it's  my  place  to  be  angry  with  you. 


ACT  iv]     THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE        99 

EDWARD.  I  beg  your  pardon.  [Then  he  is  elaborately 
explanatory.']     I  shall  be  grateful  if  you'll  prosecute. 

MR.  BOOTH.  [More  puzzled  than  ever.]  There's  some- 
thing in  this  which  I  don't  understand. 

EDWARD.     {With  deliberate  unconcern.']     Think  it  over. 

MR.  BOOTH.  [Hesitating,  fidgetting.]  But  surely  I 
oughtn't  to  have  to  make  up  my  mind !  There  must  be  a 
right  or  wrong  thing  to  do.    Edward,  can't  you  tell  me  ? 

EDWARD.     I'm  prejudiced. 

MR.  BOOTH.  [Angrily.]  What  do  you  mean  by  placing 
me  in  a  dilemma?  I  believe  you're  simply  trying  to  prac- 
tise upon  my  goodness  of  heart.  Certainly  I  ought  to  pros- 
ecute at  once  .  .  Oughtn't  I?  [Then  at  the  nadir  of  help- 
lessness.]    Can't  I  consult  another  solicitor? 

EDWARD.  [His  chin  in  the  air.]  Write  to  the  Times 
about  it! 

MR.  BOOTH.  [Shocked  and  grieved  at  his  attitude.]  Ed- 
ward, how  can  you  be  so  cool  and  heartless? 

EDWARD.  [Changing  his  tone.]  D'you  think  I  shan't  be 
glad  to  sleep  at  nights? 

MR.  BOOTH.     Perhaps  you'll  be  put  in  prison? 

EDWARD.  I  a  m  in  prison  .  .  a  less  pleasant  one  than 
Wormwood  Scrubbs.    But  we're  all  prisoners,  Mr.  Booth. 

MR.  BOOTH.  [Wagging  his  head.]  Yes,  this  is  what 
comes  of  your  philosophy.    Why  aren't  you  on  your  knees? 

EDWARD.      To   you? 

This  was  not  what  mr.  booth  meant,  but  as  he  gets 
up  from  his  chair  he  feels  all  but  mighty. 
MR.  booth.    And  why  should  you  expect  me  to  shrink 
from  vindicating  the  law? 

EDWARD.  [Shortly.]  I  don't.  I've  explained  you'll  be 
doing  me  a  kindness.  When  I'm  wanted  you'll  find  me 
here  at  my  desk.  [Then  as  an  afterthought.]  If  you  take 
long  to  decide  .  .  don't  alter  your  behaviour  to  my  family 


100      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE     [act  iv 

in  the  meantime.    They  know  the  main  points  of  the  busi- 
ness, and 

MR.  BOOTH.  [Knocked  right  off  his  balance.']  Do  they? 
Good  God!  .  .  I'm  invited  to  dinner  the  day  after  to- 
morrow .  .  that's  Christmas  Eve.    The  hypocrites ! 

EDWARD.  [Unmoved.]  I  shall  be  there  .  .  that  will 
have  given  you  two  days.    Will  you  tell  me  then? 

MR.  BOOTH.  [Protesting  violently.]  I  can't  go  to  dinner 
.  .  I  can't  eat  with  them  !    I  must  be  ill ! 

EDWARD.  [With  a  half  smile.]  I  remember  I  went  tc 
dinner  at  Chislehurst  to  tell  my  father  of  my  decision. 

MR.  BOOTH,     [Testily.]    What  decision? 

EDWARD.  To  remain  in  the  firm  when  I  first  knew  of 
the  difficulties. 

MR.  BOOTH.     [Interested.]    Was  I  present? 

EDWARD.     I  daresay. 

MR.  BOOTH  stands  there,  hat,  stick  and  gloves  in 
hand,  shaken  by  his  experience,  helpless,  at  his  wits' 
end.  He  falls  into  a  sort  of  fretful  reverie,  speak- 
ing half  to  himself,  but  yet  as  if  he  hoped  that  ed- 
WARD,  who  is  wrapped  in  his  own  thoughts,  would 
have  the  decency  to  answer,  or  at  least  listen,  to 
what  he  is  saying. 

MR.  BOOTH.  Yes,  how  often  I  dined  with  him !  Oh,  it 
was  monstrous !  [His  eyes  fall  on  the  clock.]  It's  nearly 
lunch  time  now.  Do  you  know,  I  still  can  hardly  believe 
all  this?  I  wish  I  hadn't  found  it  out.  If  he  hadn't  died  I 
should  never  have  found  it  out.  I  hate  to  have  to  be  vin- 
dictive .  .  it's  not  my  nature.  Indeed,  I'm  sure  I'm  more 
grieved  than  angry.  But  it  isn't  as  if  it  were  a  small  sum. 
And  I  don't  see  that  one  is  called  upon  to  forgive  crimes 
.  .  or  why  does  the  Law  exist?  I  feel  that  this  will  go 
near  to  kilHng  me.  I'm  too  old  to  have  such  troubles  .  . 
it  isn't  right.    And  now  if  I  have  to  prosecute 

EDWARD.     [At  last  throwing  in  a  word.]    You  need  not. 


ACT  iv]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       101 

MR.  BOOTH.    [Thankful  for  the  provocation.']    Don't  you 
attempt  to  influence  me,  sir ! 
He  turns  to  go. 
EDWARD.     With  the  money  you  have  left  ... 

EDWARD  follows  him  politely,    mr.  booth  Mngs  the 
door  open. 
MR.  BOOTH.    Make  out  a  cheque  for  that  at  once  and 
send  it  me. 

EDWARD.       You   could   .    .    . 

MR.  BOOTH.     [Clapping  his  hat  on,  stamping  his  stick.} 
I  shall  do  the  right  thing,  sir,  never  fear. 

So  he  marches  off  in  fine  style,  having,  he  thinks, 
had  the  last  word  and  all.    But  edward^  closing  the 
door  after  him,  mutters  .  . 
EDWARD.    .  .  Save  your  soul !  .  .  I'm  afraid  I  was  going 
to  say. 


10^       THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  v 


THE  FIFTH  ACT 

Naturally,  it  is  the  dining-room — consecrated  as  it  is  to  the 
distinguishing  orgie  of  the  season — which  hears  the 
brunt  of  what  an  English  household  knows  as 
Christinas  decorations.  They  consist  chieily  of  the 
branches  of  holly  {that  unyielding  tree),  stuck  cock- 
eyed behind  the  top  edges  of  the  pictures.  The  one 
picture  conspicuously  not  decorated  is  that  which 
now  hangs  over  the  fireplace,  a  portrait  of  mr.  voy- 
SEY,  with  its  new  gilt  frame  and  its  brass  plate 
marking  it  also  as  a  presentation,  honor,  hastily,  and 
at  some  hodily  peril,  pulled  down  the  large  bunch  of 
mistletoe  which  a  callous  housemaid  had  suspended 
above  it,  in  time  to  obviate  the  shock  to  family  feel- 
ings which  such  impropriety  would  cause.  Otherwise 
the  only  difference  between  the  dining-room's  ap- 
pearance at  half  past  nine  on  Christmas  eve  and  on 
any  other  evening  in  the  year  is  that  little  piles  of 
queer-shaped  envelopes  seem  to  be  lying  about,  zvhile 
there  is  quite  a  lot  of  tissue  paper  and  string  to  he 
seen  peeping  from  odd  corners.  The  electric  light 
is  reduced  to  one  bulb,  but  when  the  maid  opens  I  he 
door,  showing  in  mr.  george  booth,  she  switches  on 
the  rest. 
PHCEBE.  This  room  is  empty,  sir.  I'll  tell  Mr.  Edward. 
She  leaves  him  to  fidget  towards  the  fireplace  and 
back,  not  removing  his  comforter  or  his  coat,  scarce- 
ly turning  down  the  collar,  screzving  his  cap  in  his 


ACT  v]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       103 

hands.  In  a  very  short  time  edward  comes  in,  shut- 
ting the  door,  and  taking  stock  of  the  visitor  before 
he  speaks. 

EDWARD.     Well  ? 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  [Feebly.']  I  hope  my  excuse  for  not 
coming  to  dinner  was  acceptable.  I  did  have  .  .  I  have  a 
very  bad  headache. 

EDWARD.     I  daresay  they  believed  it. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  I  havc  comc  immediately  to  tell  you 
of  my  decision  .  .  perhaps  this  trouble  will  then  be  a  little 
more  off  my  mind. 

EDWARD.     What  is  it  ? 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  I  couldn't  think  the  matter  out  alone. 
I  went  this  afternoon  to  talk  it  all  over  with  my  old  friend 
Colpus.  [At  this  news  edward's  eyebrows  contract  and 
then  rise.']    What  a  terrible  shock  to  him ! 

EDWARD.  Oh,  nearly  three  of  his  four  thousand  pounds 
are  quite  safe. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  That  you  and  your  father  .  .  you, 
whom  he  baptised  .  .  should  have  robbed  him !  I  never 
saw  a  man  so  utterly  prostrate  with  grief.  That  it  should 
have  been  your  father !  And  his  poor  wife !  .  .  though 
she  never  got  on  with  your  father. 

EDWARD.  [With  cheerful  irony.]  Oh,  Mrs.  Colpus 
knows,  too,  does  she? 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  Of  coursc  hc  told  Mrs.  Colpus.  This 
is  an  unfortunate  time  for  the  storm  to  break  on  him. 
What  with  Christmas  Day  and  Sunday  following  so  close, 
they're  as  busy  as  can  be.  He  has  resolved  that  during 
this  season  of  peace  and  goodwill  he  must  put  the  matter 
from  him  if  he  can.  But  once  Christmas  is  over  .  .  ! 
[He  envisages  the  Christian  old  Vicar  giving  edward  a 
hell  of  a  time  then.] 

EDWARD.  [Coolly.]  So  I  coucludc  you  mean  to  prose- 
cute.   For  if  you  don't,  you've  given  the  Colpuses  a  lot  of 


104      THE  VGYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  v 

unnecessary  pain  .  .  and  inflicted  a  certain  amount  of  loss 
by  telling  them. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     [Na'ivcly.']    I  ucver  thought  of  that. 
No,  Edward,  I  have  decided  not  to  prosecute. 
EDWARD  hides  his  face  for  a  moment. 

EDWARD.  And  I've  been  hoping  to  escape !  Well  .  .  it 
can't  be  helped.    [^And  he  sets  his  teeth.'] 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  [With  touchifiQ  Solemnity.']  I  think 
I  could  not  bear  to  see  the  family  I  have  loved  brought 
to  such  disgrace. 

EDWARD.     So  you'll  compouud  my  felony? 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  [^A  little  nervons.]  That's  only  your 
joke! 

EDWARD.    You'll  come  to  no  harm. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  On  the  Contrary.  And  I  want  to 
ask  your  pardon,  Edward,  for  some  of  the  hard  thoughts  I 
have  had  of  you.  I  consider  this  effort  of  yours  to  restore 
to  the  firm  the  credit  which  your  father  lost  a  very  strik- 
ing one.   What  improvements  have  you  effected  so  far? 

EDWARD.  {Wondering  what  is  coming  now.]  I  took  the 
money  that  my  father  left  .  . 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  And  I  supposc  you  take  the  ordinary 
profits  of  the  firm? 

EDWARD.     Yes.    It  costs  me  very  little  to  live. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  Do  you  rcstorc  to  the  clients  all 
round,  in  proportion  to  the  amount  they  have  lost? 

EDWARD.     [Cautiously.]     That's  the  law. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     D'you  think  that's  quite  fair? 

EDWARD.     No,  I  don't. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  No,  I  cousider  the  treachery  to  have 
been  blacker  in  some  cases  than  in  others. 

EDWARD.  IHis  face  brightening  a  little.]  Are  you  going 
to  help  me  in  this  work  of  mine? 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  Surcly,  by  consenting  not  to  prose- 
cute I  am  doing  so. 


\ 


ACT  v]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       105 

EDWARD.     Will  you  do  no  more  ? 

MR.  GEORGE  EOOTH.  Well,  Es  far  as  my  own  money  is 
concerned,  this  is  my  proposal.  [He  coughs,  and  proceeds 
very  formally.]  Considering  how  absolutely  I  trusted  your 
father,  and  believed  in  him,  I  think  you  should  at  once 
return  me  the  balance  of  my  capital  that  there  is  left. 

EDWARD.     [Cold  again.'}     That  is  being  done. 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     Good.    That  you  should  continue  to  , 
pay  me  a  fair  interest  upon  the  rest  of  that  capital,  which 
ought  to  exist  and  does  not.    And  that  you  should,  year  by  * 
year,  pay  me  back  by  degrees  out  of  the  earnings  of  the  x 
firm  as  much  of  that  capital  as  you  can  afford.    We  will  ' 
agree  upon  the  sum  .  .  say  a  thousand  a  year.    I  doubt  if  I    ,^ 
you  can  ever  restore  me  all  that  I  have  lost,  but  do  your  %    f  ]  1 
best,  and  I  shan't  complain.    There  .  .  I  think  that  is  fair  \   ' 
dealing ! 

EDWARD  does  not  take  his  eyes  off  mr.  booth  until 
the  whole  meaning  of  this  proposition  has  settled  in 
his  brain.  Then,  without  warning,  he  goes  off  into 
peals  of  laughter,  much  to  the  alarm  of  mr.  eootpi, 
who  has  never  thought  him  over-sane. 

EDWARD.     How  funny  !    How  very  funny  ! 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     Edward,  don't  laugh. 

EDWARD.     I  never  heard  anything  quite  so  funny! 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     Edward,  stop  laughing! 

EDWARD.  What  will  Colpus  .  .  what  will  all  the  other 
Christian  gentlemen  demand?  Pounds  of  flesh!  Pounds 
of  flesh ! 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  Don't  be  hysterical.  I  demand  what 
is  mine  .  .  in  such  quantities  as  you  can  afiford. 

Edward's  laughter  gives  way  to  the  deepest  anger 
of  which  he  is  capable. 

EDWARD.  I'm  giving  my  soul  and  body  to  restoring  you 
and  the  rest  of  you  to  your  precious  money  bags  .  .  and 
you'll  wring  me  dry.     Won't  you?    Won't  you? 


106      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  v 

iviR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.    Now  be  reasonable.  Argue  the  point 
quietly. 
EDWARD.    Go  to  the  devil,  sir! 

And  with  that  he  turns  away  from  the  Hahhergasted 
old  gentleman. 
MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.    Don't  be  rudc. 
EDWARD.     [^His  anger  vanishing.']    I  beg  your  pardon. 
MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.    You're  excited.    Take  time  to  think 
of  it.    I'm  reasonable. 

EDWARD.      [His  sense   of  humour  returning.']     Most ! 
Most!    [There  is  a  knock  at  the  door.]   Come  in  !   Come  in  ! 
HONOR  intrudes  an  apologetic  head. 
HONOR.     Am  I  interrupting  business  ?    I'm  so  sorry. 
EDWARD.    [Crowing  in  a  mirthless  enjoyment  of  his  joke.] 
No !    Business  is  over  .  .  quite  over.    Come  in,  Honor. 

HONOR  puts  on  the  table  a  market  basket  bulging 
with   little   paper   parcels,   and,    oblivious   to    mr. 
booth's  distracted  face,  tries  to  fix  his  attention. 
HONOR.    I    thought,    dear    Mr.    Booth,    perhaps    you 
wouldn't  mind  carrying  round  this  basket  of  things  your- 
self.   It's  so  very  damp  underfoot  that  I  don't  want  to  send 
one  of  the  maids  out  to-night  if  I  can  possibly  avoid  it  .  . 
and  if  one  doesn't  get  Christmas  presents  the  very  first 
thing  on  Christmas  morning  quite  half  the  pleasure  in 
them  is  lost,  don't  you  think  ? 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.      YcS   .    .   yeS. 

HONOR.  [Fishing  out  the  parcels  one  by  one.]  This  is  a 
bell  for  Mrs.  Williams  .  .  something  she  said  she  wanted 
so  that  you  can  ring  that  for  her,  which  saves  the  maids. 
Cap  and  apron  for  Mary.  Cap  and  apron  for  Ellen.  Shawl 
for  Davis,  when  she  goes  out  to  the  larder.  All  useful 
presents.  And  that's  something  for  you,  but  you're  not  to 
look  at  it  till  the  morning. 

Having  shaken  each  of  these  at  the  old  gentleman, 
she  proceeds  to  re-pack  them.    He  is  now  trembling 


ACT  v]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       107 

with  anxiety  to  escape  before  any  more  of  the  fam- 
ily find  him  there. 
MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     Thank  you  .  .  thank  you!    I  hope 
my  lot  has  arrived.    I  left  instructions  .  . 

HONOR.  Quite  safely  .  .  and  I  have  hidden  them.  Pres- 
ents are  put  on  the  breakfast  table  to-morrow. 

EDWARD.  {With  an  inconsequence  that  still  further 
alarms  mr.  booth.]  When  we  were  all  children  our  Christ- 
mas breakfast  was  mostly  made  off  chocolates. 

Before  the  basket  is  packed,  mrs.  voysey  sails  slowly 
into  the  room,  as  smiling  and  as  deaf  as  ever,    mr. 
booth  does  his  best  not  to  scowl  at  her. 
MRS.  voysey.    Are  you  feeling  better,  George  Booth? 
MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.     No.     [Then  he  elevates  his  voice, 
with  a  show  of  politeness.']    No,  thank  you  .  .  I  can't  say 
I  am. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.    You  don't  look  better. 
MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.    I  Still  havc  my  headache.    \With  a 
distracted  shout.]     Headache. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.  Bilious,  perhaps  !  I  quite  understand  you 
didn't  care  to  dine.  But  why  not  have  taken  your  coat 
off?    How  foolish,  in  this  warm  room! 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.    Thank  you.    Fm  just  going. 

He  seizes  the  market  basket.    At  that  moment  mrs. 
HUGH  appears. 
BEATRICE.     Your  shawl,  mother.     \^And  she  clasps  it 

round  mrs.  voysey's  shoulders.] 
MRS.  voysey.     Thank  you,  Beatrice.    I  thought  I  had  it 
on.     [Then  to  mr.  booth,  who  is  now  entangled  in  his 
comforter,]    A  merry  Christmas  to  you. 
BEATRICE.     Good  evening,  Mr.  Booth. 
MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.    I  beg  your  pardon.    Gopd  evening, 
Mrs.  Hugh, 

honor.     [With  sudden  inspiration,  to  the  company  in 


108       THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       [act  v 

general-l      Why   shouldn't   I   write   in   here  .  .  now   the 
table's  cleared ! 

MR.  GEORGE  BOOTH.  [Sternly,  now  he  is  safe  by  the 
door.l    Will  you  see  me  out,  Edward? 

EDWARD.      Yes. 

He  follows  the  old  man  and  his  basket,  leaving  the 
others  to  distribute  themselves  about  the  room.  It 
is  a  custom  of  the  female  members  of  the  voysey 
family,  especially  about  Christmas  time,  to  return  to 
the  dining-room,  when  the  table  has  been  cleared, 
and  occupy  themselves  in  various  ways  which  re- 
quire space  and  untidiness.  Sometimes,  as  the  eve- 
ning wears  on,  they  partake  of  cocoa,  sometimes  they 
abstain.  Beatrice  has  a  little  work-basket,  contain- 
ing a  buttonless  glove  and  such  things,  zvhich  she  is 
rectifying,  honor's  zuriting  is  done  with  the  aid  of 
an  enormous  blotting  book,  which  bulges  with  ap- 
parently a  year's  correspondence.  She  sheds  its  con- 
tents upon  the  end  of  the  dining  table  and  spraads 
them  abroad,  mrs.  voysey  settles  to  the  fire,  opens 
the  Nineteenth  Century,  and  is  instantly  absorbed 
in  it. 

BEATRICE.    Where's  Emily? 

honor.  [Mysteriously.1  Well,  Beatrice,  she's  in  the 
library,  talking  to  Booth. 

BEATRICE.  Talking  to  her  husband;  good  Heavens!  I 
know  she  has  taken  my  scissors. 

HONOR.     I  think  she's  telling  him  about  you. 

BEATRICE.     W^hat  about  me? 

HONOR.    You  and  Hugh. 

BEATRICE.  [With  a  little  movement  of  annoyance.']  I 
suppose  this  is  Hugh's  fault.  It  was  carefully  arranged  no 
one  was  to  be  told  till  after  Christmas. 

HONOR.  Emily  told  me  .  .  and  Edward  knows  .  .  and 
Mother  knows  .  . 


ACT  v]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       109 

BEATRICE.     I  warned  Mother  a  year  ago. 

HONOR.  Everyone  seems  to  know  but  Booth  .  .  so  I 
thought  he'd  better  be  told.  I  suggested  one  night  so  that 
he  might  have  time  to  think  over  it  .  .  but  Emily  said 
that'd  wake  Alfred.  Besides,  she's  nearly  always  asleep 
herself  when  he  comes  to  bed. 

BEATRICE.  Why  do  they  still  have  that  baby  in  their 
room? 

HONOR.     Emily  considers  it  her  duty. 

At  this  moment  emily  comes  in,  looking  rather 
trodden  upon,  honor  concludes  in  the  most  audible 
of  whispers  .  . 

HONOR.     Don't  say  anything  .  .  it's  my  fault. 

BEATRICE.  [Fixing  her  with  a  severe  forefinger.']  Emily 
.  .  have  you  taken  my  best  scissors  ? 

EMILY.     [Timidly.]     No,  Beatrice. 

HONOR.  [Who  is  diving  into  the  recesses  of  the  blotting 
book.]  Oh,  here  they  are !  I  must  have  taken  them.  I  do 
apologise ! 

EMILY.  [More  timidly  still.]  I'm  afraid  Booth's  rather 
cross  .  .  he's  gone  to  look  for  Hugh. 

BEATRICE.  [With  a  shake  of  her  head.]  Honor  .  .  I've 
a  good  mind  to  make  you  sew  on  these  buttons  for  me. 

In  comes  the  Major,  strepitant.  He  takes,  so  to 
speak,  just  time  enough  to  train  himself  on  Beatrice, 
and  then  fires. 

BOOTH.  Beatrice,  what  on  earth  is  this  Emily  has  been 
telling  me? 

BEATRICE.  [With  elaborate  calm.]  Emily,  what  have 
you  been  telling  Booth? 

BOOTH.  Please  .  .  please  do  not  prevaricate.  Where  is 
Hugh? 

MRS.  voYSEY.  [Looking  over  her  spectacles.]  What  did 
you  say,  Booth? 

BOOTH.    I  want  Hugh,  Mother, 


110       THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  v 

MRS.  VOYSEY.  I  thought  you  were  playing  billiards  to- 
gether. 

EDWARD  strolls  bock  from  despatching  mr.  booth, 
his  face  thoughtful. 

booth.     {Insistently.']    Edward,  where  is  Hugh  ? 

EDWARD.     [With  complete  indifference.']     I  don't  know. 

booth.  [In  trumpet  tones.]  Honor,  will  you  oblige  me 
by  finding  Hugh,  and  saying  I  wish  to  speak  to  him,  here, 
immediately  ? 

HONOR,  who  has  leapt  at  the  sound  of  her  name, 
Hies  from  the  room  without  a  word. 

BEATRICE.  I  know  quite  well  what  you  want  to  talk 
about,  Booth.  Discuss  the  matter  by  all  means,  if  it 
amuses  you  .  .  but  don't  shout. 

BOOTH.  I  use  the  voice  Nature  has  gifted  me  with, 
Beatrice. 

BEATRICE.  [As  sJic  scarchcs  for  a  glove  button.]  Cer- 
tainly Nature  did  let  herself  go  over  your  lungs. 

BOOTH.  [Glaring  round  with  indignation.]  This  is  a 
family  matter,  otherwise  I  should  not  feel  it  my  duty  to 
interfere  .  .  as  I  do.  Any  member  of  the  family  has  a 
right  to  express  an  opinion.  I  want  Mother's.  Mother, 
what  do  you  think? 

MRS.  VOYSEY.     [Amicably.]    What  about? 

BOOTH.     Hugh  and  Beatrice  separating. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.    They  haven't  separated, 

BOOTH.     But  they  mean  to. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.     Fiddle-de-dcc ! 

BOOTH.     I  quite  agree  with  you. 

BEATRTCE.  [With  o  charming  smile.]  This  reasoning 
would  convert  a  stone. 

BOOTH.     Why  have  I  not  been  told? 

BEATRICE.    You  have  just  been  told. 

BOOTH.     [Thunderously.]    Before. 


ACT  v]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       111 

BEATRICE.  The  truth  is,  dear  Booth,  we're  all  so  afraid 
of  you. 

BOOTH.  lA  little  mollified,']  Ha  .  .  I  should  be  glad  to 
think  that. 

BEATRICE.     [Sweetly.']    Don't  you  ? 

BOOTH,  llntensely  serious.]  Beatrice,  your  callousness 
shocks  me !  That  you  can  dream  of  deserting  Hugh  .  .  a 
man  of  all  others  who  requires  constant  care  and  attention. 

BEATRICE.  May  I  remark  that  the  separation  is  as  much 
Hugh's  wish  as  mine? 

BOOTH.    I  don't  believe  that. 

BEATRICE.     [Her  eyebrows  up.]    Really ! 

BOOTH.  I  don't  imply  that  you're  lying.  But  you  must 
know  that  it's  Hugh's  nature  to  wish  to  do  anything  that 
he  thinks  anybody  wishes  him  to  do.  All  my  life  I've  had 
to  stand  up  for  him  .  .  and,  by  Jove,  I'll  continue  to  do  so. 

EDWARD.     IFrom  the  depths  of  his  armchair.]     If  you'd 

taught  him  to  stand  up  for  himself 

The  door  is  Hirng  almost  off  its  hinges  by  hugh, 
who  then  stands  stamping,  and  pale  green  with  rage. 

HUGH.  Look  here,  Booth  .  .  I  will  not  have  you  inter- 
fering with  my  private  affairs.  Is  one  never  to  be  free 
from  your  bullying? 

BOOTH.    You  ought  to  be  grateful. 

HUGH.    Well,  I'm  not. 

BOOTH.    This  is  a  family  affair. 

HUGH.    It  is  not ! 

BOOTH.  [At  the  top  of  his  voice.]  If  all  you  can  do  is 
to  contradict  me,  you'd  better  listen  to  what  I've  got  to 
say  .  ,  quietly. 

HUGH,  quite  shouted  down,  flings  himself  petulantly 
into  a  chair.   A  hush  falls. 

EMILY.  [In  a  still  small  voice.]  Would  you  like  me  to 
go,  Booth? 

BOOTH.    [Severely.]    No,  Emily.    Unless  anything  has 


112       THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  v 

been  going  on  which  cannot  be  discussed  before  you  .  . 
[Then  more  severely  still.]    And  I  hope  that  is  not  so. 

HUGH.  [Muttering  rebelliously.']  Oh,  you  have  the 
mind  of  a  .  .  cheap  schoolmaster ! 

BOOTH.    Why  do  you  wish  to  separate? 

HUGH.  What's  the  use  of  telling  you?  You  won't  un- 
derstand. 

BEATRICE.  [Who  sews  OH,  utidisturbed.'}  We  don't  get 
on  well  together. 

BOOTH.     [Amasedly.']    Is  that  all  ? 

HUGH.  [Snapping  at  him.'}  Yes,  that's  all.  Can  you 
find  a  better  reason  ? 

BOOTH.  [With  brotherly  contempt.']  I  have  given  up 
expecting  common  sense  from  you.  But  Beatrice — !  [His 
tone  implores  her  to  be  reasonable.] 

BEATRICE.  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  any  sort  of  sense  that 
people  should  live  together  for  purposes  of  mutual  irri- 
tation. 

BOOTH.  [Protesting.]  My  dear  girl!  .  .  that  sounds 
like  a  quotation  from  your  last  book. 

BEATRICE.  It  isn't.  I  do  think,  Booth,  you  might  read 
that  book  .  .  for  the  honour  of  the  Family. 

BOOTH.  [Successfully  side-tracked  . .  ]  I  have  bought 
it,  Beatrice,  and 

BEATRICE.     That's  the  principal  thing,  of  course 

BOOTH.  [  .  .  and  discovering  it.]  But  do  let  us  keep  to 
the  subject. 

BEATRICE.  [With  flattering  sincerity.]  Certainly,  Booth. 
And  there  is  hardly  any  subject  that  I  wouldn't  ask  your 
advice  about.  But  upon  this  .  .  do  let  me  know  better, 
Hugh  and  I  will  be  happier  apart. 

BOOTH.     [Obstinately.]    Why? 

BEATRICE.  [With  resolute  patience,  having  vented  a  lit- 
tle sigh.]  Hugh  finds  that  my  opinions  distress  him.  And 
I  have  at  last  lost  patience  with  Hugh. 


ACT  v]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       113 

MRS.  VOYSEY.  IWho  hos  been  trying  to  follow  this 
through  her  spectacles.l    What  does  Beatrice  say? 

BOOTH.  [Translating  into  a  loud  sing-song.']  That  she 
wishes  to  leave  her  husband  because  she  has  lost  patience ! 

MRS.  VOYSEY.  [With  Considerable  acrimony,]  Then  you 
must  be  a  very  ill-tempered  woman.  Hugh  has  a  sweet 
nature. 

HUGH.     [Shouting  self-consciously.']  Nonsense,  mother ! 

BEATRICE.  [Shouting  good-humouredly.]  I  quite  agree 
with  you,  mother.  [She  continues  to  her  husband  in  an 
even  just  tone.]  You  have  a  sweet  nature,  Hugh,  and  it  is 
most  difficult  to  get  angry  with  you.  I  have  been  seven 
years  working  up  to  it.  But  now  that  I  am  angry,  I  shall 
never  get  pleased  again. 

The  Major  returns  to  his  subject,  refreshed  by  a 
moment's  repose. 

BOOTH.  How  has  he  failed  in  his  duty?  Tell  us.  I'm 
not  bigoted  in  his  favour.    I  know  your  faults,  Hugh. 

He  wags  his  head  at  hugh,  who  writhes  with  irri- 
tation. 

HUGH.  Why  can't  you  leave  them  alone  .  .  leave  us 
alone  ? 

BEATRICE.  I'd  state  my  case  against  Hugh,  if  I  thought 
he'd  retaliate. 

HUGH.  [Desperately  rounding  on  his  brother.]  If  I  tell 
you,  you  won't  understand.  You  understand  nothing! 
Beatrice  is  angry  with  me  because  I  won't  prostitute  my 
art  to  make  money. 

BOOTH.  [Glancing  at  his  wife.']  Please  don't  use  meta- 
phors of  that  sort. 

BEATRICE.  [Reasonably.]  Yes,  I  think  Hugh  ought  to 
earn  more  money. 

BOOTH.  [Quite  pleased  to  be  getting  along  at  last.] 
Well,  why  doesn't  he? 

HUGH.     I  don't  want  money. 


114      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  v 

BOOTH.     You  can't  say  you  don't  want  money  any  more 
than  you  can  say  you  don't  want  bread. 

BEATRICE.     [As  she  breaks  off  her  cotton."]     It's  when 
one  has  known  what  it  is  to  be  a  little  short  of  both  .  , 

Now  the  Major  spreads  himself,  and  begins  to  be 
very  wise,  while  hugh,  to  whom  this  is  more  intol- 
erable than  all,  can  only  clutch  his  hair. 
BOOTH.     You  know  I  never  considered  Art  a  very  good 
profession  for  you,  Hugh.    And  you  won't  even  stick  to 
one  department  of  it.    It's  a  profession  that  gets  people 
into  very  bad  habits,  I  consider.     Couldn't  you  take  up 
something  else?     You  could  still  do  those  wood-cuts  in 
your  spare  time  to  amuse  yourself. 

HUGH.     [Commenting  on  this  with  two  deliberate  shouts 
of  simulated  mirth.']    Ha !  Ha ! 

BOOTH.     [Sublimely  superior.]     Well,  it  wouldn't  much 
matter  if  you  didn't  do  them  at  all ! 

BEATRICE.     [Subtly.]   Booth,  there  speaks  the  true  critic. 
BOOTH.     [Deprecating  any  title  to  omniscience.]     Well, 

I  don't  pretend  to  know  much  about  Art,  but 

HUGH.     It  would  matter  to  me.    There  speaks  the  artist. 

BEATRICE.     The  arrogance  of  the  artist. 

HUGH.     We  have  a  right  to  be  arrogant. 

BEATRICE.     Good  Workmen  are  humble. 

HUGH.    And  look  to  their  wages. 

BEATRICE.     Well,  I'm  only  a  workman. 

With  that  she  breaks  the  contact  of  this  quiet,  dead- 
ly, hopeless  little  quarrel  by  turning  her  head  away. 
The  Major,  who  has  given  it  most  friendly  atten- 
tion, comments  .  . 
BOOTH.  Of  course!  Quite  so!  I'm  sure  all  that  is  a 
very  interesting  difference  of  opinion. 

MRS.  VOYSEY  Icovcs  her  armchair  for  her  favourite 
station  at  the  dining  table. 
MRS.  VOYSEY.    Booth  is  the  only  one  of  you  that  I  can 


ACT  v]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       115 

hear  at  all  distinctly.  But  if  you  two  foolish  young  people 
think  you  want  to  separate  .  .  try  it.  You'll  soon  come 
back  to  each  other  and  be  glad  to.  People  can't  fight 
against  Nature  for  long.  And  marriage  is  a  natural  state 
.  .  once  you're  married. 
BOOTH.     [With  intense  approval']    Quite  right,  Mother. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.      I  kuOW. 

She  resumes  the  Nineteenth  Century.  The  Major, 
to  the  despair  of  everybody,  makes  yet  another  start, 
trying  oratory  this  time. 

BOOTH.  My  own  opinion  is,  Beatrice  and  Hugh,  that 
you  don't  realise  the  meaning  of  the  word  marriage.  I 
don't  call  myself  a  religious  man  .  .  but  dash  it  all,  you 
were  married  in  church!  .  .  And  you  then  entered  upon 
an  awful  compact !  .  .  Surely  .  .  as  a  woman,  Beatrice  .  . 
the  religious  point  of  it  ought  to  appeal  to  you.  Good 
Lord,  suppose  everybody  were  to  carry  on  like  this !  And 
have  you  considered,  Beatrice,  that  .  .  whether  you're 
right  or  whether  you're  wrong  .  .  if  you  desert  Hugh,  you 
cut  yourself  off  from  the  Family? 

BEATRICE.  [With  the  sweetest  of  smiles.]  That  will 
distress  me  terribly. 

BOOTH.  [Not  doubting  her  for  a  moment.]  Of  course. 
HUGH  fiings  up  his  head  and  finds  relief  at  last  in 
many  words. 

HUGH.  I  wish  to  Heaven  I'd  ever  been  able  to  cut  my- 
self off  from  the  family !    Look  at  Trenchard. 

BOOTH.  [Gobbling  a  little  at  this  unexpected  attack.]  I 
do  not  forgive  Trenchard  for  quarreling  with  and  desert- 
ing our  Father. 

HUGH.  Trenchard  quarreled  because  that  was  his  only 
way  of  escape. 

BOOTH.    Escape  from  what? 

HUGH.  From  tyranny !  .  .  from  hypocrisy !  .  .  from 
boredom!  .  .  from  his  Happy  English  Home! 


/ 


116      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  v 

BEATRICE.     [Kindly.']    Hugh  .  .  Hugh  .  .  It's  no  use. 

BOOTH.  [Attempting  sarcasm.']  Speak  so  that  Mother 
can  hear  you ! 

But  HUGH  isn't  to  he  stopped  nozv. 

HUGH.  Why  are  we  all  dull,  cubbish,  uneducated,  hope- 
lessly middle-class  .  .  that  is,  hopelessly  out  of  date? 

BOOTH.     [Taking  this  as  very  personal.]    Cubbish  ! 

HUGH.  .  .  Because  it's  the  middle-class  ideal  that  you 
should  respect  your  parents  .  .  live  with  them  .  .  think 
with  them  .  .  grow  like  them.  Natural  affection  and  grat- 
itude !     That's  what's  expected,  isn't  it? 

BOOTH.     [Not  to  he  ohliterated.]    Certainly. 

HUGH.  Keep  your  children  ignorant  of  all  that  you 
don't  know,  penniless  except  for  your  good  pleasure,  de- 
pendent on  you  for  permission  to  breathe  freely  .  .  and  be 
sure  that  their  gratitude  will  be  most  disinterested,  and 
affection  very  natural.  H  your  father's  a  drunkard,  or 
poor,  then  perhaps  you  get  free,  and  can  form  an  opinion 
or  two  of  your  own  . .  and  can  love  him  or  hate  him  as 
he  deserves.  But  our  Father  and  Mother  were  models. 
They  did  their  duty  by  us  .  .  and  taught  us  ours.  Trench- 
ard  escaped,  as  I  say.  You  took  to  the  Army  .  .  so  of 
course  you've  never  discovered  how  behind  the  times  you 
are.  [The  Major  is  stupent.]  I  tried  to  express  myself  in 
art  .  .  and  found  there  was  nothing  to  express  .  .  I'd 
been  so  well  brought  up.  D'you  blame  me  if  I  wander 
about  in  search  of  a  soul  of  some  sort?    And  Honor 

BOOTH.  [Disputing  savagely.]  Honor  is  very  happy  at 
home.    Everyone  loves  her. 

HUGH.  [With  fierce  sarcasm.]  Yes  .  ,  what  do  we  call 
her?  Mother's  right  hand!  I  wonder  they  bothered  to 
give  her  a  name.  By  the  time  little  Ethel  came  they  were 
tired  of  training  children.  .  [His  voice  loses  its  sting;  he 
doesn't  complete  this  sentence.] 

BEATRICE.    Poor  little  Ethel  .  . 


ACT  v]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       117 

BOOTH.     Poor  Ethel ! 

They  speak  as  one  speaks  of  the  dead,  and  so  the 
wrangling  stops.     Then  edward  interposes  quietly. 

EDWARD.     Yes,  Hugh,  if  we'd  been  poor  .  . 

HUGH.  I  haven't  spoken  of  your  fate,  Edward.  That's 
too  shameful. 

EDWARD.  .  .  We  should  at  least  have  learnt  how  to 
spend  money. 

BOOTH.  ^Pathetically.']  Really,  Edward,  need  you  at- 
tack me  ? 

HUGH.  Well  .  .  you're  so  proud  of  representing  the 
family ! 

BOOTH.     And  may  I  ask  what  we're  discussing  now? 

BEATRICE.  Yes,  Edward.  I  knew  how  to  get  the  great- 
est possible  happiness  out  of  a  five-pound  note  years  be- 
fore I  had  one. 

EDWARD.  The  first  man  who  saved  a  sovereign  has 
made  a  prisoner  of  me. 

BOOTH.  [^Determined  to  capture  the  conversation  again."] 
Has  made  a  .  .   ? 

EDWARD.  Will  make  .  .  if  you  understand  that  better, 
Booth. 

BOOTH.  I  don't  understand  it  at  all.  [They  leave  him 
the  field.]  And  why,  for  no  earthly  reason,  we  must  sud- 
denly open  up  a — a  street,  which  is  very  painful  .  .  I  really 
cannot  see.  One  never  knows  who  may  be  listening.  [He 
glances  most  uneasily  towards  the  door  and  drops  his 
voice.]  In  that  unhappy  business,  Edward,  you  very  wise- 
ly did  what  we  all  felt  to  be  your  duty.  I'm  sure  we  all 
hope  you  have  succeeded  in  your  endeavours.  But  the 
least  we  can  do  now  in  respect  to  our  poor  Father's  mem- 
ory is  to  bury  the  matter  in — in  decent  oblivion.  And 
please  .  .  please  don't  talk  of  prison.  I  thought  you'd 
given  up  that  idea  long  ago.  [Having  dismissed  that  sub- 
ject unopposed,  he  takes  a  long  breath.]    Now  we  will  re- 


118      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  v 

turn  to  the  original  subject  of  discussion.     Hugh,   this 

question  of  a  separation 

Past  all  patience,  hugh  jumps  up  and  flings  his 
chair  back  to  its  place, 

HUGH.  Beatrice  and  I  mean  to  separate.  And  nothing 
you  may  say  will  prevent  us.  The  only  difficulty  in  the 
way  is  money.  Can  we  command  enough  to  live  apart 
comfortably? 

BOOTH.     Well  ? 

HUGH.     Well  .  .  we  can't. 

BOOTH.     Well? 

HUGH.     So  we  can't  separate. 

BOOTH.  [Speaking  with  bewilderment.'}  Then  what  in 
Heaven's  name  have  we  been  discussing  it  for? 

HUGH.  I  haven't  discussed  it !  I  don't  want  to  discuss 
it !  Why  can't  you  mind  your  own  business  ?  Now  I'll  go 
back  to  the  billiard  room  and  my  book. 

He  is  gone  before  the  poor  Major  can  recover  his 
lost  breath. 

BOOTH.  [As  he  does  recover  it.']  I  am  not  an  impatient 
man  .  .  but  really  .  .  [And  then  words  fail  him.] 

BEATRICE.  [Commenting  calmly.]  Of  course,  Hugh  was 
a  spoilt  child.  They  grow  to  hate  their  parents  sooner 
than  others.  He  still  cries  for  what  he  wants.  That 
makes  him  a  wearisome  companion. 

BOOTH.  [Very  sulky  now.]  You  married  him  with  your 
eyes  open,  I  suppose? 

BEATRICE.    How  f cw  womcn  marry  with  their  eyes  open ! 

BOOTH.     You  have  never  made  the  best  of  Hugh. 

BEATRICE.     I  have  spared  him  that  indignity. 

BOOTH.  [Vindictively.]  I  am  very  glad  that  you  can't 
separate. 

BEATRICE.    As  soon  as  I'm  reasonably  sure  of  earning 
an  income  I  shall  walk  off  from  him. 
The  Major  revives. 


ACT  v]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       119 

BOOTH.  You  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  Beatrice. 
BEATRICE.  \Unruffled.']  How  will  you  stop  me,  Booth? 
BOOTH.  I  shall  tell  Hugh  he  must  command  you  to  stay. 
BEATRICE.  [With  a  little  smile.']  Now  that  might  make 
a  difference.  It  was  one  of  the  illusions  of  my  girlhood 
that  I  should  love  a  man  who  would  master  me. 
BOOTH.     Hugh  must  assert  himself. 

He  begins  to  walk  about,  giving  some  indication  of 
how  it  should  be  done.    Beatrice's  smile  has  van- 
ished. 
BEATRICE.     Don't  think  IVe  enjoyed  taking  the  lead  in 
everything  throughout  my  married  life.    But  someone  had 
to  plan  and  scheme  and  be  foreseeing  .  .  we  weren't  spar- 
rows or  lilies  of  the  field  .  .  someone  had  to  get  up  and  do 
something.     \_She  becomes  conscious  of  his  strutting,  and 
smiles  rather  mischievously.]     Ah  .  .  if  I'd  married  you, 
Booth ! 

booth's  face  grows  beatific. 
BOOTH.    Well,  I  must  own  to  thinking  that  I  am  a  mas- 
terful man  .  .  that  is  the  duty  of  every  man  to  be  so. 
[He  adds  forgivingly.]     Poor  old  Hugh ! 

BEATRICE.  [Unable  to  resist  temptation.]  If  I'd  tried  to 
leave  you.  Booth,  you'd  have  whipped  me  .  .  wouldn't 
you? 

BOOTH.     [Ecstatically  complacent.]    Ha  .  .  well  .  1   ! 
BEATRICE.     Do  say  yes.    Think  how  it'll  frighten  Emily. 
The  Major  strokes  his  moustache,   and  is  most 
friendly. 
BOOTH.    Hugh's  been  a  worry  to  me  all  my  life.    And 
now  as  Head  of  the  Family  .  .  Well,  I  suppose  I'd  better 
go  and  give  the  dear  old  chap  another  talking  to.    I  quite 
see  your  point  of  view,  Beatrice. 
BEATRICE.    Why  disturb  him  at  his  book? 

MAJOR  BOOTH  Icavcs  them,  squaring  his  shoulders  as 
becomes  a  lord  of  creation.    The  two  sisters-in-law 


120      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  v 

go  on  with  their  work  silently  for  a  moment;  then 
BEATRICE  adds  .  . 
BEATRICE.     Do  you  find  Booth  difficult  to  manage,  Emily  ? 
EMILY.     IPutting  down  her  knitting  to  consider  the  mat- 
ter.']    No.     It's  best  to  allow  him  to  talk  himself  out. 
When  he's  done  that  he'll  often  come  to  me  for  advice.    I 
let  him  get  his  own  way  as  much  as  possible  .  .  or  think 
he's  getting  it.    Otherwise  he  becomes  so  depressed. 

BEATRICE.     [Quietly  amused.]     Edward  shouldn't  hear 
this.    What  has  he  to  do  with  women's  secrets  ? 
EDWARD.     I  won't  tell  .  .  and  I'm  a  bachelor. 
EMILY.     [Solemnly,  as  she  takes  up  her  knitting  again.] 
Do  you  really  mean  to  leave  Hugh  ? 
BEATRICE.     [Slightly  impatient.]     Emily,  I've  said  so. 
They  are  joined  by  alice  maitland^  who  comes  in 
gaily. 
ALICE.     What's  Booth  shouting  about  in  the  billiard 
room? 

EMILY.     [Pained.]    On  Christmas  Eve,  too ! 
BEATRICE.     Don't  you  take  any  interest  in   my  matri- 
monial affairs? 

MRS.  voYSEY  shuts  Up  the  Nineteenth  Century  and 
removes  her  spectacles. 
MRS.  VOYSEY.     That's  a  very  interesting  article.     The 
Chinese  Empire  must  be  in  a  shocking  state!     Is  it  ten 
o'clock  yet? 
EDWARD.     Past. 

MRS.  voYSEY.     [As  EDWARD  is  behind  her.]    Can  anyone 
see  the  clock? 
ALICE.     It's  past  ten,  Auntie. 
MRS.  VOYSEY.     Then  I  think  I'll  go  to  my  room. 
EMILY.     Shall  I  come  and  look  after  you,  Mother? 
MRS.  VOYSEY.     If  you'd  find  Honor  for  me,  Emily. 

EMILY  goes  in  search  of  the  harmless,  necessary 


ACT  v]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       121 


HONOR,  and  mrs.  voysey  begins  her  nightly  chant 
of  departure. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.     Good-night,  Alice.    Good-night,  Edward. 

EDWARD.     Good-night,  Mother. 

MRS.  VOYSEY.  {With  sudden  severity.']  Fm  not  pleased 
with  you,  Beatrice. 

BEATRICE.     I'm  sorry,  Mother. 

But,  without  waiting  to  he  answered,  the  old  lady 
has  sailed  out  of  the  room.  Beatrice,  edward  and 
ALICE  are  attuned  to  each  other  enough  to  he  ahle 
to  talk  with  ease. 

BEATRICE.  Hugh  is  right  about  his  family.  It'll  never 
make  any  new  life  for  itself. 

EDWARD.     There  are  Booth's  children. 

BEATRICE.     Poor  little  devils  ! 

ALICE.     {Judicially.']     Emily  is  an  excellent  mother. 

BEATRICE.  Yes  .  .  they'll  grow  up  good  men  and  women. 
And  one  will  go  into  the  Army  and  one  into  the  Navy  and 
one  into  the  Church  .  .  and  perhaps  one  to  the  Devil  and 
the  Colonies.  They'll  serve  their  country,  and  govern  it, 
and  help  to  keep  it  like  themselves  .  .  dull  and  respectable 
.  .  hopelessly  middle-class.  {She  puts  down  her  work  now 
and  elevates  an  oratorical  fist.]  Genius  and  Poverty  may 
exist  in  England,  if  they'll  hide  their  heads.  For  show 
days  we've  our  aristocracy.  But  never  let  us  forget,  gen- 
tlemen, that  it  is  the  plain,  solid  middle-class  man  who  has 
made  us  .  .  what  we  are. 

EDWARD.  {In  sympathetic  derision.]  Hear !  hear  .  .  ! 
and  cries  of  bravo ! 

BEATRICE.  Now  that  is  out  of  my  book  .  .  the  next  one. 
[She  takes  up  her  work  again.]  You  know,  Edward  .  . 
without  wishing  to  open  up  Painful  Streets  .  .  however 
scandalous  it  has  been,  your  father  left  you  a  man's  work 
to  do. 

EDWARD.     [His  face  cloudy.]    An  outlaw's ! 


122       THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  v 

BEATRICE.  [Whimsical,  after  a  moment.']  I  meant  that. 
At  all  events  youVe  not  had  to  be  your  Father's  right  arm 
.  .  or  the  instrument  of  justice  .  .  or  a  representative  of 
the  people  .  .  or  anything  second  hand  of  that  sort,  have 
you? 

EDWARD.  [With  sudden  excitement.']  Do  you  know 
what  I  discovered  the  other  day  about  [he  nods  at  the 
portrait]  .  .  him? 

BEATRICE.     [Enquiring  calmly.]    Innocence  or  guilt? 

EDWARD.  He  saved  his  firm  once  .  .  that  was  true.  A 
most  capable  piece  of  heroism.  Then,  fifteen  years  after- 
wards .  .  he  started  again. 

BEATRICE.     [Greatly  interested.]     Did  he,  now? 

EDWARD.  One  can't  believe  it  was  merely  through  weak- 
ness .  . 

BEATRICE.  [With  artistic  enthusiasm.]  Of  course  not. 
He  was  a  great  financier  .  .  a  man  of  imagination.  He 
had  to  find  scope  for  his  abilities,  or  die.  He  despised  these 
fat  little  clients  living  so  snugly  on  their  unearned  incomes 
.  .  and  put  them  and  their  money  to  the  best  use  he  could. 

EDWARD.  [Shaking  his  head  solemnly.]  That's  all  a  fine 
phrase  for  robbery. 

BEATRICE  turns  her  clever  face  to  him  and  begins  to 
follow  up  her  subject  keenly. 

BEATRICE.  My  dear  Edward  .  .  I  understand  you've 
been  robbing  your  rich  clients  for  the  benefit  of  the  poor 
ones? 

ALICE.     [Who  hasn't  missed  a  word.]    That's  true. 
;     EDWARD.     [Gently.]    Well  .  .  we're  all  a  bit  in  debt  to 
^  the  poor,  aren't  we? 

BEATRICE.  Quite  SO.  And  you  don't  possess,  and  your 
father  didn't  possess  that  innate  sense  of  the  sacredness  of 
property  .  .  .  [she  enjoys  that  phrase]  which  alone  can 
make  a  truly  honest  man.  Nor  did  the  man  possess  it  who 
picked  my  pocket  last  Friday  week  .  .  nor  does  the  tax- 


ACT  v]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       123 

gatherer  .  .  .  nor  do  I.  Your  father's  freedom  from 
prejudice  was  tempered  by  a  taste  for  Power  and  Display. 
Yours  is  by  Charity.  But  that's  all  the  difference  I'll 
admit  between  you.     Robbery!  .  .  it's  a  beautiful  word. 

EDWARD.  \_A  little  pained  by  as  much  of  this  as  he  takes 
to  he  seriousJ]    I  think  he  might  have  told  me  the  truth. 

BEATRICE.  Perhaps  he  didn't  know  it !  Would  you  have 
believed  him? 

EDWARD.     Perhaps  not.    But  I  loved  him. 

BEATRICE  looks  again  at  the  gentle,  earnest  face. 

BEATRICE.    After  as  well  as  before? 

EDWARD.    Yes.  And  not  from  mere  force  of  habit,  either. 

BEATRICE.  [With  reverence  in  her  voice  now.l  That 
should  silence  a  bench  of  judges.     Well  .  .  well  .  . 

Her  sewing  finished,  she  stuffs  the  things  into  her 
basket,  gets  up,  in  her  abrupt,  unconventional  way, 
and  goes  without  another  word.  Her  brain  is  busy 
with  the  Voysey  Inheritance,  edward  and  alice 
are  left  in  chairs  by  the  fire,  facing  each  other  like 
an  old  domestic  couple. 

EDWARD.     Stay  and  speak  to  me. 

ALICE.  I  want  to.  Something  more  serious  has  hap- 
pened since  dinner. 

EDWARD.    I'm  glad  you  can  see  that. 

ALICE.     What  is  it? 

EDWARD.  [With  sudden  exultation.']  The  smash  has 
come  .  .  and  not  by  my  fault.    Old  George  Booth 

ALICE.     Has  he  been  here? 

EDWARD.  Can  you  imagine  it  ?  That  old  man  forced  me 
into  telling  him  the  truth.  I  told  him  to  take  what  money 
of  his  there  was,  and  prosecute.  He  won't  prosecute,  but 
he  bargains  to  take  the  money  .  .  and  further  to  bleed  us, 
sovereign  by  sovereign,  as  I  earn  sovereign  by  sovereign 
with  the  sweat  of  my  soul.  I'll  see  him  in  his  Christian 
Heaven  first  .  .  the  Jew ! 


124       THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       [act  v 

ALICE.    [^Keeping  her  head.']   You  can't  reason  with  him? 

EDWARD.  He  thinks  he  has  the  whip  hand,  and  he  means 
to  use  it.  Also  the  Vicar  has  been  told  .  .  who  has  told  his 
wife.  She  knows  how  not  to  keep  a  secret.  The  smash 
has  come  at  last. 

ALICE.     So  you're  glad? 

EDWARD.  Thankful.  My  conscience  is  clear.  I've  done 
my  best.  {Then,  as  usual  with  him,  his  fervour  collapses.'] 
And  oh,  Alice  .  .  has  it  been  worth  doing? 

ALICE.  [Encouragingly.]  Half  a  dozen  people  pulled 
out  of  the  fire. 

EDWARD.  If  only  that  isn't  found  out !  I've  bungled  this 
job,  Alice.  I  feared  all  along  I  should.  It  was  work  for  a 
strong  man  .  .  not  for  me. 

ALICE.     Work  for  a  patient  man. 

EDWARD.  You  use  kind  words.  But  I've  never  shirked 
the  truth  about  myself.  My  father  said  mine  was  a  weak 
nature.    He  knew. 

ALICE.     You  have  a  religious  nature. 

EDWARD.     [Surprised.]    Oh,  no ! 

ALICE.  [Proceeding  to  explain.]  Therefore  you're  not 
fond  of  creeds  and  ceremonies.  Therefore  .  .  as  the  good 
things  of  this  worldly  world  don't  satisfy  you,  you  shirk 
contact  with  it  all  you  can.  I  understand  this  temptation 
to  neglect  and  despise  practical  things.  But  if  one  yields 
to  it  one's  character  narrows  and  cheapens.  That's  a  pity 
.  .  but  it's  so. 

EDWARD.  [His  eyes  far  away.]  D'you  ever  feel  that 
I  there  aren't  enough  windows  in  a  house? 

ALICE,     [Prosaically.]    In  this  weather  .  .  too  many. 

EDWARD.  Well,  then  .  .  in  a  house — especially  in  a  big 
city — in  my  office,  at  work,  then  .  .  one  is  out  of  hearing 
of  all  the  music  of  the  world.  And  when  one  does  get 
back  to  Nature,  instead  of  being  all  curves  to  her  round- 
ness, one  is  all  corners. 


ACT  v]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       125 

ALICE.  [Smiling  at  him.']  Yes,  you  love  to  think  idly 
.  .  just  as  Hugh  does.  You  do  it  quite  well,  too.  [Then 
briskly.']    Edward,  may  I  scold  you? 

EDWARD.     For  that? 

ALICE.  Because  of  that.  You're  grown  to  be  a  sloven 
lately  .  .  deliberately  letting  yourself  be  unhappy. 

EDWARD.     Is  happiness  under  one's  control? 

ALICE.  My  friend,  you  shouldn't  neglect  your  happiness 
any  more  than  you  neglect  to  wash  your  face.  Here  has 
the  squalour  of  your  work  been  making  you  poor.  Because 
it  was  liable  to  be  stopped  at  any  moment,  uncompleted  .  . 
why  should  that  let  your  life  be  incomplete?  Edward,  for 
the  last  eighteen  months  you've  been  more  like  a  moral 
portent  than  a  man.  You've  not  had  a  smile  to  throw  to 
a  friend  .  .  or  an  opinion  upon  any  subject.  You've 
dropped  your  volunteering.  [He  protests.]  I  know  there's 
something  comic  in  volunteering  .  .  though  Heaven  knows 
what  it  is !  I  suppose  you  found  it  out  of  keeping  with 
your  unhappy  fate.  And  how  slack  you  were  in  your  poli- 
tics last  November.    I  don't  believe  you  even  voted  .  . 

EDWARD.     [Contrite  at  this.]    That  was  wrong  of  me ! 

ALICE.  Yes,  I  expect  a  man  to  be  a  good  citizen.  And 
you  don't  even  eat  properly. 

With  that  she  completes  the  accusation,  and  edward 
searches  round  for  a  defence. 

EDWARD.  Alice,  it  was  always  an  effort  with  me  to  do 
all  those  things  .  .  and  lately  every  effort  has  had  to  go  to 
my  work. 

ALICE.    You  did  them  .  .  on  principle. 

EDWARD.    Don't  laugh  at  me. 

ALICE.  [Whispering  the  awful  words.]  Then  truth- 
fully, Edward,  once  upon  a  time  you  were  a  bit  of  a  prig. 

EDWARD.  [With  enough  sense  of  humour  to  whisper 
hack.]     Was  I? 

ALICE.    I'm  afraid  so.    But  the  prig  fell  ill  when  your 


126       THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  v 

father  died  .  .  and  had  to  be  buried  in  his  grave.  [Then 
her  voice  rises  stirringly.']  Oh,  don't  you  see  what  a  bless- 
ing this  cursed  work  was  meant  to  be  to  you  ?  Why  must 
you  stand  stiff  against  it? 

EDWARD.  [Without  a  smile  now.']  But  lately,  Alice,  I've 
hardly  known  myself.  Once  or  twice  I've  lost  my  temper 
.  .  I've  been  brutal. 

ALICE.  That's  the  best  news  in  the  world.  There's  your 
own  wicked  nature  coming  out.  That's  what  we've  been 
waiting  for  . .  that's  what  we  want.    That's  you. 

EDWARD.     IStill  serious.]    I'm  sorry  for  it. 

ALICE.  Oh,  Edward,  be  a  little  proud  of  poor  humanity 
.  .  take  your  own  share  in  it  gladly.  It  so  discourages  the 
rest  of  us  if  you  don't. 

Suddenly  he  breaks  down  completely, 

EDWARD.  I  can't  let  myself  be  glad  and  live.  There's 
the  future  to  think  of.  And  I'm  so  afraid  of  that.  I  must 
pretend   I  don't  care  .  .  even  to  myself  .  .  even  to  you. 

ALICE.  [Her  mocking  at  an  end.]  What  is  it  you  fear 
most  about  the  future  .  .  not  just  the  obviously  unpleasant 
things  ? 

EDWARD.     They'll  put  me  in  prison. 

ALICE.     Perhaps. 

EDWARD.    Who'll  be  the  man  who  comes  out? 

ALICE.    Yourself. 

EDWARD.  No,  no!  I'm  a  coward.  I  can't  stand  alone, 
it's  too  lonely.  I  need  affection  .  .  I  need  friends.  I  cling 
to  people  that  I  don't  care  for  deeply  .  .  just  for  the  com- 
fort of  it.  I've  no  home  of  my  own.  Every  house  that 
welcomes  me  now  I  like  to  think  of  as  something  of  a 
home.  And  I  know  that  this  disgrace  in  store  will  leave 
me  for  a  long  time  or  a  short  time  .  .  homeless. 

There  he  sits,  shaken,    alice  waits  a  moment,  not 
taking  her  eyes  from  him;  then  speaks. 

ALICE.     There's  something  else  I  want  to  scold  you  for. 


ACT  v]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       127 

You've  still  given  up  proposing  to  me.  Certainly  that 
shows  a  lack  of  courage  .  .  and  of  perseverance.  Or  is  it 
the  loss  of  what  I  always  considered  a  very  laudable 
ambition  ? 

EDWARD  is  hardly  able  to  trust  his  ears.     Then  he 
looks  into  her  face,  and  his  thankfulness  frames  it' 
self  into  a  single  sentence, 
EDWARD.    Will  you  marry  me? 
ALICE.    Yes,  Edward. 

For  a  minute  he  just  holds  his  breath  with  happi- 
ness.   But  he  shakes  himself  free  of  it,  almost  sav- 
agely. 
EDWARD.     No!   no!  no!     We  mustn't  be  stupid.     I'm 
sorry  I  asked  for  that. 

ALICE.  \With  serene  strength.'\  I'm  glad  that  you  want 
me.    While  I  live  .  .  where  I  am  will  be  Home. 

EDWARD.  [Struggling  with  himself.']  No,  it's  too  late. 
If  you'd  said  Yes  before  I  came  into  my  inheritance  .  . 
perhaps  I  shouldn't  have  given  myself  to  the  work.  So  be 
glad  that  it's  too  late.    I  am. 

ALICE.  [Happily.']  There  was  never  any  chance  of  my 
marrying  you  when  you  were  only  a  well-principled  prig. 
I  didn't  want  you  .  .  and  I  don't  believe  you  really  wanted 
me.  Now  you  do.  And  you  must  always  take  what  you 
want. 

EDWARD.  [Turning  to  her  again.]  My  dear,  what  have 
we  to  start  life  upon  .  .  to  build  our  house  upon?  Poverty 
.  .  and  prison  for  me. 

ALICE.  [Mischievous.]  Edward,  you  seem  to  think  that 
all  the  money  in  the  world  was  invested  in  your  precious 
firm.  I  have  four  hundred  a  year  of  my  own.  At  least 
let  that  tempt  you. 

EDWARD  catches  her  in  his  arms  with  a  momentary 
Utile  burst  of  passion. 
EDWARD.    You're  tempting  me. 


128       THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  v 

She  did  not  resist,  but  nevertheless  he  breaks  away 
from  her,  disappointed  with  himself.    She  goes  on, 
quietly,  serenely. 
ALICE.    Am  I?    Am  I  playing  upon  your  senses  in  any 
way?    Am  I  a  silly  child,  looking  to  you  for  protection  in 
return  for  your  favour?    Shall  I  hinder  or  help  your  life? 
If  you  don't  think  me  your  equal  as  woman  to  man,  we'll 
(never  speak  of  this  again.    But  if  you  do  .  .  look  at  me, 
'and  make  your  choice.    To  refuse  me  my  work  and  hap- 
piness in  life  and  to  cripple  your  own  nature  .  .  or  to  take 
my  hand. 

She  puts  out  her  hand  frankly,  as  a  friend  should. 
With  only  a  second's  thought  he,  happy,  too,  now, 
takes  it  as  frankly.  Then  she  sits  beside  him,  and 
quite  cheerfully  changes  the  subject. 
ALICE.  Now,  referring  to  the  subject  of  Mr.  George 
Booth.    What  will  he  do? 

EDWARD.    [Responsive  though  impatient,']    He'll  do  noth- 
ing.   I  shall  be  before  him. 
ALICE.    What  about  his  proposal? 
EDWARD.    That  needs  no  answer. 

ALICE.  Yes,  it  does.  I  know  the  temptation  to  hit  back 
at  him  mock-heroically  .  .  it's  natural.  Well,  we'll  con- 
sider it  done.  But  he's  a  silly  old  man,  and  he  doesn't 
know  what  he's  talking  about.  I  think  we  can  bargain 
with  him  to  keep  the  firm  going  somehow  .  .  and  if  we 
can  we  must. 

At  this  EDWARD  makes  a  last  attempt  to  abandon 
himself  to  his  troubles. 
EDWARD.     No,  Alice,  no  .  .  let  it  end  here.    It  has  done 
for  me  .  .  I'm  broken.    And  of  course  we  can't  be  mar- 
ried .  .  that's  absurd. 

ALICE.  [With  firmness  enough  for  two.]  We  shall  be 
married.  And  nothing's  broken  .  .  except  our  pride  and 
righteousness  .  .  and   several   other  things   we're  better 


ACT  v]      THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE       129 

without.    And  now  we  must  break  our  dignity  in  to  bar- 
gaining. 

EDWARD.  [Struggling  in  the  toils  of  virtue.']  But  it'll 
be  so  useless.  Colpus'U  be  round  in  a  day  or  two  to  make 
his  conditions  .  ,  he'll  tell  some  intimate  friend.  They'll 
all  come  after  their  money  like  wasps  after  honey.  And 
if  they  know  I  won't  lift  a  finger  in  my  own  defence  .  . 
what  sort  of  mercy  will  they  have? 

ALICE.  [Triumphantly  completing  her  case.']  No,  Ed- 
ward, if  you  surrender  yourself  entirely,  you'll  find  them 
powerless  against  you.  You  see,  you  had  something  to 
hope  or  fear  from  Mr.  Booth  .  .  you  hoped  in  your  heart 
he'd  end  your  trouble.  But  when  you've  conquered  that 
last  little  atom  of  the  selfishness  which  gets  in  one's  way,  I 
think  you'll  find  you  can  do  what  you  wish  with  these 
selfish  men.  [And  she  adds,  fervently.]  Oh,  it's  a  power 
so  seldom  used.  But  the  man  who  is  able,  and  cares  deeply, 
and  yet  has  nothing  to  hope  or  fear  is  all  powerful  .  . 
even  in  little  things. 

EDWARD.  Will  nothing  ever  happen  to  set  me  free? 
Shall  I  never  be  able  to  rest  for  a  moment  .  .  turn  round 
and  say  I've  succeeded  or  I've  failed? 

ALICE.    That  isn't  what  matters. 

EDWARD.  If  they  could  all  meet,  and  agree,  they  might 
syndicate  themselves,  and  keep  me  at  it  for  life. 

ALICE.    What  more  could  you  wish  for? 

EDWARD.    Than  that  dreary  round! 

ALICE.  My  dear,  the  world  must  be  put  tidy.  That's 
the  work  which  splendid  criminals  .  .  and  others  leave 
about  for  us  poor  commonplace  people  to  do. 

EDWARD.  [With  a  little  laugh.]  And  I  don't  believe  in 
Heaven,  either. 

ALICE.  [Close  to  him.]  But  there's  to  be  our  life. 
What's  wrong  with  that? 


130       THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE      [act  v 

EDWARD.     My  dear,  when  they  put  me  in  prison  for 
swindling [He  makes  the  word  sound  its  worstj] 

ALICE.    I  think  they  won't.    But  if  they  are  so  stupid  .  . 
I  must  be  very  careful. 

EDWARD.    Of  what? 

ALICE.    To  avoid  false  pride.    I  shall  be  foolishly  proud 
of  you. 

EDWARD.    It's  good  to  be  praised  sometimes  .  .  by  you. 

ALICE.    My  heart  praises  you.    Good-night. 

EDWARD.     Good-night. 

She  kisses  his  forehead.  But  he  puts  up  his  face 
like  a  child,  so  she  bends  down,  and  for  the  first  time 
their  lips  meet.  Then  she  steps  back  from  him,  add- 
ing happily,  with  perhaps  just  a  touch  of  shyness. 

ALICE.    Till  to-morrow. 

EDWARD.     [Echoing  in  gratitude  the  hope  and  promise 
in  her  voice."]    Till  to-morrow. 

She  leaves  him  to  sit  there  by  the  table  for  a  few 
moments  longer,  looking  into  his  future,  streaked  as 
it  is  to  be  with  trouble  and  joy.  As  whose  is  not? 
From  above  .  .  from  above  the  mantelpiece,  that  is 
to  say  .  .  the  face  of  the  late  mr.  voysey  seems  to 
look  down  upon  his  son  not  unkindly,  though  with 
that  curious  buccaneering  twist  of  the  eyebrows 
which  distinguished  his  countenance  in  life. 


CAST  OF   CHARACTERS 


131 


"The  Voysey  Inheritance"  was  first  played  at  the  Court 
Theatre,  a  Vedrenne-Barker  performance,  on  the  after- 
noon of  November  /th,  ipo^. 


Mr.  Voysey 

Mrs.  Voysey 

Tren CHARD  Voysey,  K.C. 

Honor  Voysey 

Major  Booth  Voysey 
v^Mrs.  Booth  Voysey 

Christopher 

Edward  Voysey 

Hugh  Voysey 

Mrs.  Hugh  Voysey 
■  Ethel  Voysey 

Denis  Trmoning 

Alice  Maitland 

Mr.  Booth 

The  Rev.  Evan  Colpus 

Peacey 

Phcebe 

Mary 


A.  E.  George 

Miss  Florence  Haydon 

Eugene  Mayeur 

Miss  Geraldine  Olliffe 

Charles  Fulton 

Miss  Grace  Edwin 

Harry  C.  Duff 

Thalberg  Corbett 

Dennis  Eadie 

Miss  Henrietta  Watson 

Miss  Alexandra  Carlisle 

Frederick  Lloyd 

Miss  Mabel  Hackney 

O.  B.  Clarence 

Edmund  Gwenn 

Trevor  Lowe 

Miss  Gwynneth  Galton 

Mrs.  Fordyce 


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